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vir-tanadahl · 1 month ago

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As the Moon Rises

Chapter 5: The Colors of the Veil

I’m eagerly rewriting As the Moon Rises, which was originally written back in 2017, in anticipation of Dragon Age: Veilguard, channeling my excitement into refining the story. Summary: Isera Lavellan, at her mother’s behest, is sent to assist her twin brother, Banreas—the Inquisitor—in his mission to stop a force determined to bring about the world’s end. Together, they uncover long-buried secrets of their shared family history while Isera finds herself drawn to a mysterious non-Dalish elven mage whose knowledge of her heritage runs far deeper than she could have imagined. As the stakes rise, Isera must navigate this dangerous journey of discovery, where the past holds as much peril as the looming threats of the present. Solas x F!Lavellan.

[Ch1] [Ch2] [Ch3] [Ch4] [Ch5]

Skyhold was bustling in the weeks following their success at Adamant, the morale among the Inquisition at an all-time high. Yet, Isera remained mostly in her tower, harboring feelings of bitterness and anger. While she diligently assisted those who came to the healing center, she rarely ventured out unless absolutely needed. The lively celebrations felt distant to her, overshadowed by her internal struggles as she grappled with the complexities of her newfound abilities and her place within the group.

Banreas was too busy to visit her, consumed by the fallout of conscripting the Wardens. Nobles from both Ferelden and Orlais protested the decision, their fears of Corypheus's influence on the Grey Wardens echoing throughout the halls of Skyhold. Yet, Banreas remained steadfast in his choice, resolute in his belief that they needed the strength and experience of the Wardens to face the looming threats. Isera could sense his determination, even from a distance, but it did little to ease the bitterness that churned within her.

He shared that his decision was rooted in history—the Fifth Blight had begun in Ferelden, a country that had banned the Grey Wardens years prior and only allowed their return months before the Blight truly struck. Banreas emphasized the importance of learning from past mistakes, arguing that their unity was essential in the face of impending danger. Despite the protests from nobles, he was determined to ensure that the Wardens had a place in their fight against Corypheus, believing that their experience could make all the difference.

He had argued that, for the sake of safety regarding future Blights, banning the Wardens from Orlais could lead to long-term consequences once this fight was over. At least, that was what she overheard from the soldiers during their stops at the clinic. Whispers of his reasoning circulated among the ranks, and while some agreed with his perspective, others remained skeptical, the tension palpable as they discussed the implications of such a decision.

There was always dissent to be had, however. Additionally, rumors circulated that the Inquisition would be invited to the Winter Palace. This was a critical moment to demonstrate that the Inquisition held not only power in numbers but also significant influence. As whispers of their upcoming presence at the palace spread, Isera could sense the gravity of the situation, knowing that this opportunity could shape their future in the political landscape of Thedas.

Isera was surprised when Solas entered the clinic, his presence a soft disturbance in the otherwise quiet space. She lay on the second level, still in bed, listening as he moved around below her. The sound of glasses clinking together filled the air as he picked them up and set them down, a rhythmic melody that echoed softly against the walls. She couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing, a mix of curiosity and intrigue sparking within her as she listened.

He called up to her, but when he received no response, he slowly made his way up the stairs. Each creak of the steps resonated in the quiet space, causing Isera’s body to stiffen with anxiety. The sound seemed to amplify her unease, heightening her awareness of his approach as she braced herself for their impending conversation.

Isera pulled the blankets over her head, hoping to successfully hide the disheveled mess of her bed and make it seem as if she wasn’t there at all. She knew she should feel embarrassed or ashamed; it was well into the afternoon. Yet, an unsettling emptiness enveloped her instead. She didn’t feel anything—not the shame she expected, nor the embarrassment of being caught in such a state.

“I can see the blankets moving,” Solas called, a hint of amusement lacing his voice. Isera felt a flush of embarrassment creep in despite her earlier numbness. She held her breath, hoping he would simply leave her be, but the teasing nature of his words left her no choice but to confront the reality of being discovered.

“It’s a ghost,” Isera replied, her voice hoarse from disuse. The playful deflection served as a shield against her embarrassment, a small attempt to lighten the mood despite her earlier discomfort. “Clearly there is a solid form,” Solas replied, his tone amused but steady. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“No, just a shell it seems,” Isera replied, feeling exposed as the blankets were suddenly pulled from her face. Solas stared at her, his expression unreadable, leaving her unsure whether it was pity or indifference. “You’re upset,” he stated, the softness in his voice betraying a concern that clashed with his earlier teasing.

“No. Being upset implies feeling. I’m not feeling anything,” Isera replied, her voice steady but hollow. The admission hung in the air between them, a stark acknowledgment of her emotional numbness. She met Solas’s gaze, hoping to convey the depth of her disconnect, even as the chaos of the outside world pressed in around them.

He sighed loudly, a mix of frustration and empathy in his voice. “You are upset because you experienced something you thought would no longer bother you. Yet, you had a taste of it only to have it cruelly taken away.” His words resonated in the quiet space, laying bare the reality of her feelings and the pain of loss that lingered beneath her calm facade.

“Really, do your elven eyes see that?” Isera shot back, her tone laced with sarcasm. She crossed her arms defensively, unwilling to fully confront the vulnerability he was trying to unearth. Despite the jest, a flicker of curiosity about his perspective tugged at her, but she pushed it aside, determined to maintain her bravado.

“Do you always deflect with humor or sarcasm?” Solas bristled at her words, his tone shifting slightly. There was a sharpness to his gaze as he regarded her, an unspoken challenge lingering in the air. Isera felt the heat of his scrutiny, realizing that her defenses might not be enough to mask her true feelings.

“Clearly. It’s a running theme,” she retorted, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. Her tone was sharp, a mix of defiance and humor as she stood her ground. Isera met his gaze with an unwavering look, determined to maintain her armor of sarcasm despite the vulnerability underneath.

“An exhausting one,’”Solas replied, his expression softening slightly as he regarded her. The hint of concern in his voice was unmistakable, as if he understood the weight of her sarcasm. He studied her, contemplating whether she would let her walls down or continue to hide behind her humor.

“Why are you here?” she asked, shifting the topic abruptly, her curiosity overriding her discomfort. She remained unmoving on her bed, a hesitant barrier between her and the world outside. The change in conversation offered her a momentary escape from the vulnerability they had been navigating.

“The Inquisitor is unable to break away from the nobles. Those in the inner circle who have gotten to know you are worried,” he explained, his tone carrying an unexpected sincerity. The weight of his words hung in the air.

“Yes, and why are you here?” Isera pressed, her curiosity piqued despite her earlier reluctance. She regarded him with a mixture of wariness and interest, eager to understand what had drawn him to her in this moment of vulnerability.

He seemed unimpressed with her attitude. “They have requested my assistance,” he replied, a hint of frustration in his voice. His gaze remained steady, undeterred by her deflection, as he made it clear that his presence was not merely a matter of choice but a response to a greater need.

“Well, you assisted. You can leave now,” she said, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture. The words were light, but there was an underlying sharpness to her tone, a clear indication that she wanted him to respect her space. Isera met his gaze with a challenging look, unwilling to let him linger any longer than necessary.

“I am afraid not,” Solas replied, his expression unyielding. There was a quiet determination in his voice, a refusal to back down in the face of her dismissal. He stepped closer, bridging the gap between them, his presence a reminder that he wouldn’t be easily dismissed.

Isera let out a loud, whiny noise, exasperation bubbling to the surface. “Let me fall into the void in peace!” she exclaimed, her tone half-joking but laced with genuine weariness. The weight of her emotions pressed down on her, and she longed for the solitude that seemed just out of reach.

“You’re depressed,” Solas stated, his voice steady but tinged with concern. The simplicity of his observation cut through her defenses, forcing Isera to confront the reality she had been trying to avoid. She met his gaze, the weight of his words settling heavily between them.

“Yes, that’s why it’s called the void,” Isera shot back, her tone laced with sarcasm. She leaned back against her pillows, crossing her arms defiantly. The bitterness in her words masked the vulnerability she felt, as she fought to maintain her emotional distance from him."

"Get. Up," Solas demanded, his voice remaining soft yet firm. As he released the magic, it catapulted Isera out of her bed, the force of it startling her. She landed on her feet, slightly disoriented but compelled to meet his gaze, the urgency of his tone cutting through her lethargy.

Isera screamed, her eyes wide with disbelief. ‘Seriously? What if I was naked?’ she exclaimed, the embarrassment flooding her cheeks as she quickly glanced down, instinctively pulling the blankets around her. The suddenness of his command left her reeling, and she shot him a glare, torn between irritation and the remnants of her surprise.

“Then you’d be even more embarrassed,” Solas replied, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. His tone remained calm and steady, but there was an undeniable spark of mischief in his words. Isera couldn’t help but roll her eyes at his teasing, even as she felt the heat of embarrassment linger.

Isera clucked dismissively. “As if. My ass looks great clothed or unclothed.” Solas sighed loudly, clearly unamused, before making his way down into the clinic. Isera glanced at her reflection, noting her matted and flat hair from the lack of care. Quickly, she gathered it into a bun, hoping to create at least the appearance of being put together as she prepared to face the day ahead.

After changing into a clean mage robe, Isera made her way downstairs, her heart racing slightly with anticipation. Solas was still waiting, his posture relaxed but his expression unreadable. The air between them felt charged, and she steeled herself for whatever conversation awaited her as she stepped into the clinic.

Solas directed her to follow, and she complied, her heart quickening with each step they took down the stairs and toward the garden. As they walked, Isera's anxiety intensified, the unfamiliarity of the situation gnawing at her. “Where are we going?” she asked, a hint of apprehension creeping into her voice as she glanced up at him.

“You will see,” Solas answered, his expression unmoving as he led her forward. Isera sighed louder than before, a mix of frustration and curiosity bubbling beneath the surface. He guided her into one of the prayer rooms used by members of the Chantry. She wanted to make a remark about the solemnity of the space but restrained herself.

“Close your eyes,” he instructed gently. Isera complied, feeling a mix of anticipation and curiosity. He took her hands, pulling her into the room with a firm yet reassuring grip. “Stand here,” he told her, and she obeyed, sensing the space around her shift. She listened as he stepped back, the quiet settling in. “Open,” he commanded softly.

As Isera opened her eyes, she was greeted by the sight of walls adorned with the enchanted paint she had first seen weeks ago. One side depicted a lush, green forest, with crystals cascading down like glimmering raindrops between the leaves, creating an ethereal atmosphere. The other side showcased the members of the inner circle, their figures painted with intricate detail, each representing a unique aspect of their strength and unity.

“Cole shared that you missed seeing the forest and desired to see what the members of the Inquisition looked like,” Solas told her, standing at a distance and observing her as she moved around the room. Isera took in the vibrant colors and details of the artwork, feeling a sense of wonder wash over her. Each brushstroke seemed to breathe life into the space, inviting her to connect with the essence of her companions.

“I didn’t tell him that,” she whispered, approaching the mural of the inner circle. Her fingers traced the outlines of the painted figures, each one representing a vital piece of their collective strength. “No, Cole… is different. He is a spirit that took the form of a human. As such, he possesses abilities that a spirit does,” Solas explained, his voice steady. He watched her closely, noting the way she absorbed the details of the mural, a mix of curiosity and contemplation on her face.

“That’s why he looks different. He shimmers. He’s not actually human,” she responded, her gaze still captivated by the art before her. The vibrant colors and intricate details drew her in, making her momentarily forget the weight of their conversation. As she studied the mural, she felt a connection to the figures depicted, each representing a part of the Inquisition she was still getting to know.

“It seems that whatever magical effect has caused you to lose what most would consider vision allows you to see magical enchantments elsewhere,” Solas said, his voice soft and thoughtful. “As such, Varric asked me to see about enchanting the words of his books. Will you tell me if it works?”

Isera turned to look at him, her curiosity piqued. He was holding a small leather-bound book in his hand, its cover embossed with intricate designs. Isera felt a flicker of fear at the thought of touching it. She could see the enchantment shimmering between the pages, an alluring dance of light. As she stared at the cover, her eyes began to water, the weight of her emotions swelling as she traced the binding with her fingers.

After a minute, she steeled herself and began to open the book. Instead of the blank, gray pages she expected, she was met with shining black letters that glimmered as if alive. The sight filled her with wonder, each word pulsing with the magic that had transformed the ordinary into the extraordinary.

Hard in Hightown by Varric Tethras

Chapter One

They say coin never sleeps, but anyone who’s walked the patrol of Hightown Market at midnight might disagree…

Tears rolled down her cheeks as Isera held her breath, desperately trying to contain the wave of emotions threatening to burst forth. As she focused on the book, she felt the Veil pressing against her, the familiar sensation that allowed her to perceive things beyond the ordinary. If the Veil could touch it, she could see it.

However, books posed a challenge; the words were flat against the pages, and the Veil couldn’t differentiate between them. It failed to recognize colors unless they possessed magical properties. The Veil moved through gradients of gray, never truly black and never truly white, leaving Isera to navigate a world viewed through a grayscale lens. It was only when she encountered enchanted objects that shimmered with vibrant colors that she felt a glimmer of hope, a reminder of the beauty that lay just beyond her reach.

“Does it…? We can try again,” Solas said, stepping closer and lowering himself to one knee, concern evident in his voice. “Dorian had another idea if this one failed.” He reached for the book, intending to take it from her, but Isera refused to let it go. Her grip tightened as she clung to the book, her tears still falling silently, her determination unyielding. This moment meant more to her than words could express.

“Solas,” she hiccupped, a smile breaking through the tears as she quickly wiped her cheeks dry. “It works. I can see the words.” It was hard for her to speak; her chest felt heavy with a mix of joy and disbelief. “I wasn’t expecting any of this.” She gestured around at the murals, the vibrant art reflecting the magic in the room. “But I can’t read. Not novels.” A soft, pathetic giggle escaped her, the sound both light and tinged with embarrassment as she tried to process the overwhelming experience.

“I was six when I lost my vision. I can read spell books when they are enchanted, runes, and basic sentences to understand spells, but… not this…” Her shoulders slumped in defeat as she spoke, the weight of her limitations settling heavily on her. The contrast between her newfound ability to see the words and her inability to fully engage with them left her feeling frustrated and vulnerable.

She couldn’t look him in the eye; the embarrassment was overwhelming. She felt the heat radiating from her cheeks, a flush of warmth that only intensified her discomfort. As her emotions swirled, she noticed her nose beginning to clog, making it harder to breathe. Isera turned her gaze to the floor, feeling vulnerable under Solas's steady observation.

He moved to sit near her, his presence calm and reassuring. “There is a natural rectification for that. I will enchant more books that you can practice from. There is no reason to be ashamed. You have demonstrated that you are a powerful mage. You have trained your will to control magic and withstand possession. The same indomitable focus used for that can be utilized for this skill.’ His words resonated with passion and conviction, and Isera could see that he genuinely believed in her ability to master this new challenge."

Isera chuckled softly, a hint of sarcasm in her tone. ‘Indomitable focus?’ she echoed, raising an eyebrow. The phrase felt grandiose in the face of her uncertainty, but there was a spark of amusement in her eyes. Despite her earlier embarrassment, Solas's encouragement stirred something within her—a flicker of hope amidst her doubts.

“Presumably. I have yet to see it dominated. I imagine that the sight would be… fascinating,” Solas replied, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. The corner of his mouth quirked slightly, as if he found the idea both intriguing and amusing. Isera couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm, feeling the tension in the air lighten just a bit.

And for once, Isera had no retort for him, the playful banter slipping away. He offered a slight smirk before beginning to describe each member depicted in the mural, detailing who contributed what to its creation. As he spoke, Isera felt a warmth bloom within her; for the first time in her life, she felt completely included in something she had not expected. The sense of belonging wrapped around her like a comforting cloak, and she listened intently, absorbing every word.

#solas #solavellan #solas x lavellan #solas x female lavellan #solas x oc #solas dragon age #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #solas x inquisitor #solavellan hell #isera lavellan #As the Moon Rises #vir writes

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reeseykins · 4 months ago

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Reeseykins Writings

So, spoiler alert. I am all over the place.

Ratings and tags are available in each post or on Archive. Most of this is smut -- really descriptive, raunchy smut. Usually gay smut, but also sometimes I write straight relationships or threesome smut (M/M/F). I also sprinkle in fluff and character analysis, and an occasional completely non-porn story.

Attack on Titan

Eruri (Erwin Smith x Levi Ackerman)

The Only Heaven I'll Be Sent To (aka My Multi-Chapter Eruri fic that took me a year to write and utterly consumed me): Following the events of A Choice with No Regrets, Erwin and Levi settle into a surprisingly amicable relationship. Erwin soon starts to realize that his feelings for Levi are more complicated than purely professional.

Shorter Works:

New Routines || Commander Handsome || 90's College AU: Part 1, Part 2 || A Highly Decorated Soldier || Avoidance || First Kiss || The Race || Children || Talking Body || Victory || Dragon Age AU: In Death, Sacrifice || Drabbles: O Captain! My Captain!

Dragon Age

Fenris x Fem!Hawke

After the Fall: Fenris goes searching for Fem!Hawke after the events of Dragon Age II. (Not explicit.)

Fenris x Fem!Hawke x Sebastian

A Night at the Hawke Estate: Fenris and Fem!Hawke are in an established relationship, and convince Sebastian to stay the night.

Solas x Lavellan

Escaping the Past: Following her break-up with Solas, Lavellan shares some drinks with friends and reveals why she couldn’t refuse Solas’ offer to remove her vallaslin. (Not explicit but trigger warnings in post)

Baldur's Gate

Female Dark Urge/Tav x Astarion x Halsin

Backend of Forever: Ellesime (Durge) resists her longing for both Astarion and Halsin when she unearths the truth of her murderous parentage. After the events of the game they come together at last.

We Spend Our Nights So Bon Vivant: Just some smut. Astarion x Tav and implied Halsin.

#my fics #eruri #eruri fanfic #fenhawke #fenhawke fanfic #solavellan #solavellan fanfic #durge x astarion x halsin #durge x halstarion #halstarion

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jawsandbones · 6 years ago

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Post-breakup Solas getting jealous over a sweet moment between Blackwall and the Inquisitor?

“You’re going to hurt yourself like that,” he says, a wavering hand kept nearby. She leans away from him, curling the knife against the wood, flicking it upwards and out. Their feet dangle over the ledge of the roof, the half-finished thing. No one else bothers to look upwards, in that corner of Skyhold, this slice of open privacy they have found. She moves back, shoulder against shoulder, humming with her success. So sure of herself, her next slice is not quite as clean.

She hisses as she pulls back one hand, the cut on the flat of her thumb. Blackwall takes the knife and block of wood away from her quickly, places them beside him. Then he carefully, slowly, reaches for her hand. Pulling it towards him, examining the slice. Reaching into his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. Blood blooms against cloth, as he gently dabs at the cut. “It doesn’t seem horrible, at least,” he says, “I think you might live.” She chuckles, leans her head against his shoulder.

“Thank goodness for that,” she says. Blackwall keeps her hand in his.

He takes the corner stairs. Quieter, far removed from the courtyard. Less eyes, less people, the distant sounds of them, the closer sounds of silence. Books in his arms and he looks out over the walls of the fortress. Mountains all around them, a separation kept between Skyhold and the rest of Thedas. His attention is turned toward quiet laughter. His hand squeezes around the books, his steps slow. Solas watches as she puts her head on his shoulder. An unmistakable smile on Blackwall’s face, soft tenderness in his eyes. Solas reminds himself that he’s the one who pushed her away. Pushed her towards him.

Solas breaks his gaze away. Eyes forward, resuming his walk at a quicker pace. Down the stairs, refusing to look upwards at that roof, look back. He ignores the sounds of conversation, the easy back and forth. He puts his back to them, the distance he keeps between him and the rest of them. A wall kept between him and her. It’s only when he’s back in the rotunda does he realize his hand aches from holding the books so tightly. White knuckles, and he lets them drop onto the desk. A sigh, pinching the space between his eyes.

#blackwall #blackwall x inquisitor #inquisitor #solas #dragon age #blackwall x f!inquisitor #blackwall x lavellan #blackwall x f!lavellan #lavellan #f!lavellan #f!inquisitor #past solas x lavellan #past solas x inquisitor #dragon age inquisition #dai #writing #mine #Anonymous

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fiadhaisteach · 3 years ago

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Things I’ve Read This Week* - 2021.12.11

New Stories

Tumblr Related, The Weakness In Her Armor by Jacklyn_Flynn (@jacklyn-flynn) - Zevran/F!Aeducan - 978 words - complete

Chasing Ghosts, ⚜️Chasing Ghosts, ⚜️Late Nights, ⚜️Heirloom by WickedWitchoftheWilds (@wickedwitchofthewilds) - Solas/OFC - 75,955 words - 1st two works complete, last work & series WIP

Rereads

The Gold to My Silver, La Petite Mort plus 18 more by greyvvardenfell (@greyvvardenfell) - Zevran/NB!Brosca - 38,746 words, each work complete, series WIP

Tumblr (re)Reads

😈 Bloodied & Broken Bits, A continuation of Chapter 21 of Rogasha'ghi'lan, in the bath from a lot of prompts by @dreadfutures - Solas/F!Lavellan (on AO3)

Bloodied & Broken Bits, Solas POV of young!Ixchel’s Trespasser confrontation by @dreadfutures - Solas/F!Lavellan

Subscription Updates

Soladaar Drabbles by Shaykai (@shaykai) - Solas/M!Adaar (Ch. 5)

A Collection of Lost Embers, A Guide to Tending Embers by reonerra (@reonerra) - Solas/F!Lavellan (Ch. 8)

Wicked Things, What a Wicked Game to Play by Cracking Lamb (@crackinglamb) - Solas/MGiT (Ch. 67-68)

I Have Found a Home (Ian x Solas), Solas & Ian Drabbles by theharellan (@theharellan) - Solas/NB!Lavellan (Ch. 2)

✔️ Love, Delivered by beaubashley (@beaubartley) - Solas/F!Lavellan (Ch. 12), complete

Unwritten by UnrealRomance - Solas/MGiT (Ch. 233-239)

The Guardian by HumblePeasant (@mogwaei) - Solas/OFC, Dorian/M!Lavellan (Ch. 151)

Solas/Ayala, Broken, Heart by Fairfaxleasee (@fairfaxleasee) - Solas/F!Trevelyan - (Ch. 1) complete, series sub

Bloodied & Broken World State, Bloodied and Broken, Rogasha'ghi'lan (The Brave Guide) by youworeblue (@dreadfutures) - Solas/F!Lavellan (Ch. 23)

beware the forest at night, when there are miles left to go, the forest is dark and deep and i've seen you here before by victoriousscarf (@victoriousscarf) - Solas/M!Lavellan (Ch. 177-178)

pressure point by 17734 - Solas/F!Lavellan (Ch. 26)

The DA Alternate Universe Chronicles, Vir'vhen'an by RogueLioness (@roguelioness) - Solas/F!Lavellan (Ch. 7)

She's Lived a Good Life by Kinako - MCiT (Ch. 30)

Kintsugi, Fragile World by angelslaugh (@skyerie) - {F!Lavellan/TBD, Solas/F!Lavellan, Felassan/F!Lavellan} (Ch. 23-26)

lover, your back is bruised from what you carry, In the face of your light by noverture (@noverturemusings) - Solas/M!Lavellan, past Dirthamen/M!Lavellan (Ch. 105)

Love's Worth Running To, Love Run by JessTalksAlot (@jessitasquirrel) - Solas/F!Lavellan, background Iron Bull/M!Lavellan (Ch. 21)

» side note - multiple chapters may mean multiple updates; or might just be me refreshing my memory, reorienting myself in the story, or rereading some for fun.

*TIRTW & can recommend (previous weeks & TIRTW Key/Legend)

#spotlight Saturday #fic recommendations #writer recommendations #tirtw #things i've read this week #solavellan #solas/lavellan #solas x lavellan #solas/oc #solas x oc #solas/mgit #solas x mgit #zevran/warden #zevran x warden #aisteach reads #aisteach recommends

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queenaeducan · 3 years ago

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First Lines Meme

Rules: List the first lines of the last ten (10) stories you published. Look to see any patterns you notice yourself, and see if anyone else notices any. Then tag some friends.

Tagged by @imakemywings ty!! this looks fun. This is just drawn from AO3. I skipped some b/c while they were my latest on AO3 they were written/published on Tumblr years ago.

Take Me to Thedas (G, Dragon Age Ensemble)

For all the holy dignitaries who had passed through Haven in the past week and change there was a darker history that whispered in the walls when one leaned close.

This is Mercy (G, Solas & Cassandra)

Shackles rattle in his ears, bruising pale wrists.

Guard (G, Solas & Cassandra)

Dawn breaks over the Frostbacks, crowning the mountains’ peaks with wreaths of light.

We Tame the Sky (G, f!Cadash x Josephine)

Sitting in the quiet of Skyhold’s chapel, Thora begins to see why her ancestors favoured the stone so.

What is ‘Home’ to a Wanderer’s Heart? (G, nb!Lavellan x Solas)

Hands which tremble in the slightest wind hold steady now, magic coursing through Ian’s fingers and bleeding into the mortal world.

Who Am I in Your Arms? (T+, nb!Lavellan x Solas)

Light strains through the open window, highlighting the dust suspended in the air by the morning breeze.

Pride in Compassion (G, Cole & Solas)

Couples spin on the dance floor, turning and turning, going nowhere and everywhere at once.

Shooting Stars (G, f!Aeducan x Gorim)

One moment the heavens are silent, stars suspended in the sky overhead exactly as they had been the first night Gorim saw them.

Romantic Firsts (M, nb!Lavellan x Solas)

He shrinks against the walls of his cell, gazing upon the outside with listless eyes framed by lashes laced with blighted red.

To Feel Another’s Woe (T+, f!Cadash & Solas)

He counts the battle in heartbeats. Every rush of blood through his veins is another spell from his fingertips, every sixty seconds counted it another sixty seconds survived. Minutes count more in this Veilless world, where the tide may turn in an instant.

Conclusion: I don’t like starting with dialogue, I’m apparently a semi-big fan of using lighting to set a scene. I think I like hitting the ground running rather than setting up. I am impatient tbh.

Tagging: @dreadfutures, @mercenarysexuality, @rosella-writes, @ocean-in-my-rebel-soul, @cadashnua, @noire-pandora, @darethshirl no pressure, or if you’ve been tagged just link it for me! or if you want to do this just @ me and say i tagged you.

#tas talks #dash meme

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ellstersmash · 4 years ago

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love like ghosts

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Solas x f!Lavellan

Rating: T for Teen (description of pain, mild body horror)

The Anchor hissed and crackled with another violent flare. Athi whimpered, steeled herself, then discharged the energy with a pulse that shook her bones and set her nerves on fire. The effort to keep from screaming out into the expanse brought copper to her tongue and tears to her eyes.

It was killing her. Had been deteriorating for years, but not like this. The pain was blinding in its intensity. She couldn’t even recall the last night she slept through till morning or the last full meal she ate and kept down. Momentum and spite were driving her now, and Bull’s soothing hand on her back nearly broke her, so she shrugged it away and pressed on. He knew how bad it was, though he didn’t say as much. The others seemed to accept her word on the subject, though she’d seen their increasingly frantic expressions.

Maybe if she had been better prepared; two years of relative quiet had made her slow and soft and, apparently, stupid. She hadn’t been ready for any of this. The Winter Palace. Politics, corruption, plans for war. The Crossroads. The mountain fortress. The deep roads. The library. The Viddasala and her dragon.

And Fen’Harel. The Dread Wolf.

Solas.

She should have known. Should have seen it so much sooner. Maybe not the whole ridiculous truth, but something. She hadn’t told the others yet. Hoping it wasn’t true, or that it wouldn’t matter, or that this fucking thing would kill her before she had to come clean.

So long as it waited until she found him.

She had wished so many times for a reunion. Imagined what she would say to change his mind and bring him back. Or, instead, her fingers at the nape of his neck, her lips against his saying everything without saying it at all. Time had dulled that particular pain—time, and a newfound appreciation for her work. Varric had been the next to go. Then Dorian, Vivienne, Thom. Gone to return home, to seek a new one, to move on. At least they had told her why.

And it was comforting, in a way, the impermanence of it all. Nothing endured. Not pain. Not love. Not the immortal evil of Corypheus or the power of the Elvhen. Not the path of a river. Not even the strength of the Veil.

Everything changed. Everything faded.

Yet even so, some small persistent part of her held fast to every sliver of hope. The same part that stung at the mention of his name glowed brighter with each clue to his past or hint of his presence. A secret shoved deep, hidden by countless distractions and deflections and outright lies, it swelled at the thought of him. Somewhere ahead. At the end of her path. Through the next eluvian or the one after that. With answers, if nothing else.

As she stepped through, she wondered if he’d even kiss her back, and her heart strained against its shell of gauze and glue.

The Song: Love Like Ghosts by Lord Huron

The Playlist

The Series: Tumblr | AO3

#ellster writes #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dragon age fic #solas #solavellan #athi lavellan #solathi #surprise chapter! to make up for skipping a week in there

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lvllns · 4 years ago

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end of year faves for 2020

rules: it’s time to love yourselves! choose your 8 (ish) favorite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc.) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you brought into the world in 2020. tag as many writers/artists/etc. as you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome work!

i got tagged by the lovely and wonderful @ejunkiet so uhhh here we go i guess lmao.

1. salt — dragon age. solas x abigail lavellan. 16k+ words. vague mythology au? kind of? this was the first thing i posted this year and looking at it now? it desperately needs to be edited but i’m still in love with it. some of my favorite sentences are in this work. it holds a very dear place in my heart.

2. took the breath from my open mouth — the wayhaven chronicles. mason X sparrow kingston. 1.3k+ words. the very first writing for sparrow and mason uwu. disgustingly soft. another work i hold dear.

3. like petrol soaked paper and fireworks — the wayhaven chronicles. mason x sparrow kingston. 3.3k+ words. smut! just straight up soft smut following mason making the decision to stay the night. this.......might be my favorite mason and sparrow fic i’ve written honestly.

4. kiss prompt to the underside of the jaw — the wayhaven chronicles. mason x sparrow kingston. listen i can explain. the explanation is that i love them? and they’re perfect? also really fond of the way i wrote mason here.

5. bite down — when the night comes. finn kazimir x ezra lyon x laire brighton. 4.8k+ words. i write a lot of porn but listen. i love these idiots. also very happy with the way i wrote both finn and ezra here. i love all 3 of them together so much it’s ridiculous.

6. kiss prompt in relief — dragon age. fenris x penelope hawke. i love them so fucking much honestly. this is, so far, the only thing i’ve written for them that fits in their canon but holy shit do i love it. honestly? perhaps my favorite thing i wrote this year.

7. for the sake of touch — the wayhaven chronicles. felix hauville x cricket langford. 1.7k+ words. i! love! these! two! i need to write more for them but this soft fic is.......so good.

8. and in the dark, i can hear your heartbeat — the wayhaven chronicles. nate sewell x f!detective. 5.6k+ words. okay so it wouldn’t be an accurate list if i didn’t include what is my most popular fic lmao. hilariously, this was the first time i had written nate and i was so concerned about nailing his characterization. literally the way everyone embraced this fic is.......still fucking mind blowing to me. this work also has some of my absolute favorite sentences i’ve ever written. like i’m not gonna lie, i popped off with this and it’s fucking good. i’m proud of it. really proud.

i thiiiiiink everyone has been tagged at this point, but! if you want to do this and haven’t, then i’m tagging you!!!

#caiti.txt #long post #salt really needs........editing and fixing but like. hmmmm. i am in love with that fic and the way i wrote it.#even though i finished rare is this love this year i didn't include it #bc i started it in 2019 so #also it needs editing lmao #there are a LOT in my wips that are half done and never posted #like my falon'din and lavellan stuff #and my felassan and lavellan stuff #and a bunch of kincaid and nate things #you can really see my dramatic improvement when it comes to grammar and form as you flip through what i've written this year #which comes from. you know. having not written in uhhhhh a decade? before last year?#and having now written 100s of thousands of words in the last 2 years #ANYWAY onward to 2021 where i will continue to write obnoxiously soft pieces about my ocs

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pikapeppa · 4 years ago

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Felassan/f!Lavellan: Special

Chapter 15 of The Love That Grows From Violence (Felassan x Tamaris Lavellan) is up on AO3!

In which I make use of a favourite trope shut up I don’t overuse this: sparring-to-sex. Well, almost sex.

~6500 words; read on AO3 instead.

********************

Felassan sighed as he cut a slice of breakfast casserole for Tamaris. “Does it usually rain this much in Kirkwall?”

“You asked me that yesterday,” she reminded him.

He made a little grimace. “I did, didn’t I? Fenedhis, I’m getting boring, talking about the rain.” He placed a steaming piece of casserole on her plate and started cutting one for himself, and she eyed him sympathetically.

It had been pouring rain for the past three days straight, with little reprieve. Even when the rain lessened to a drizzle rather than a sheeting downpour, it hadn’t been light enough for them to eat their meals on the roof or even smoke a joint, and Felassan seemed to be having a hard time with the weather-imposed indoors time.

“You’re not boring, you’re bored,” she said. “There’s a big difference.” She took a bite of her breakfast. The casserole he’d made was like a savoury bread pudding, packed with roasted mushrooms and sausage and seasoned with rosemary, and as always with Felassan’s cooking, she savoured the melding of flavours on her tongue before swallowing.

Felassan chuckled. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not bored. How could I be bored with such charming company?”

She rolled her eyes in amusement. “Okay, not bored, then. You’re having cabin fever. We’ll spend the whole day on the roof as soon as the rain stops.”

“That’s a pleasant thought,” he said. “I wonder if I’m able yet to cast the spell that’ll protect us from sunburn?”

She looked up with interest. “There’s a spell for that?”

“There is, yes,” he said. “It’s a subtle kind of sustained barrier. There’s a similar one for repelling rain, as well.” He sat beside her and picked up his fork. “What I wouldn’t give to be able to cast that spell right now.”

He was smiling, but the way he was talking about the rain was starting to worry her. He had been acting more restless and fidgety as the rainy days went on, but she hadn’t realized that he felt this strongly about being cooped up indoors.

“Do you want to practice that rain-repelling spell after breakfast instead of sparring with me?” she asked.

“Absolutely not,” he said immediately. “And miss the chance to make you sweat? Never.”

She scoffed at his wicked smile. A provocative reply was sitting right at the tip of her tongue, and she debated with herself before finally deciding to say it.

“There are other ways of making me sweat, you know,” she said.

His face lit up with interest. “I’m very well aware, avise. Are you offering to let me exercise some of them?”

She smirked and toyed idly with her fork. “Maybe,” she said. In truth, the past three days had been difficult for Tamaris as well, for different reasons. Felassan’s increasing impatience with the weather was translating into their carnal clinches in a way that she was finding especially arousing. His kisses were more urgent than usual and his fingers more eager as they explored her body through her clothes, and his breathing was more growly and desperate as it ghosted across her ear. It was making it harder for her to resist him, and yesterday she had very nearly begged him to fuck her while they were grinding together on the library floor.

Yet somehow she’d resisted, keeping the desperate plea to herself instead of letting it loose. And late last night as she lay in bed, after bringing herself to a somewhat unsatisfying climax while thinking about Felassan’s blazing violet eyes, she started to realize why she, at least, was delaying the sex that they both so obviously wanted.

The reason was this: Tamaris wasn’t good at words the way Felassan was. She was only just getting used to telling him the more sensitive parts of her past, and she still had a particularly hard time telling him how she felt about him, especially as her feelings continued to bloom in his warm and playful presence. He was just…

There was just something about him that was so special. Tamaris had never had a companion she enjoyed spending this much time around. She liked her friends from the Inquisition, of course, and she had long grown accustomed to spending extended periods of time around each of them, but that didn’t mean she’d always enjoyed all the enforced togetherness.

In contrast, she had always enjoyed being around Solas – when he wasn’t angry, at least. But to be bluntly honest, being with Solas had never been all that fun. Intellectually stimulating, yes. Physically stimulating, absolutely. But fun? Not particularly, or not often. Not that that was Solas’s fault by any means; Tamaris was hardly a barrel of laughs herself, and her relationship with Solas had always been more about shared understanding than shared laughter.

But when Tamaris was with Felassan…

No one made her laugh the way Felassan did. She’d never connected so quickly with anyone the way she had with Felassan. She’d never had anyone else that she so enjoyed just sitting around and talking with – just talking about everything and nothing, teasing each other and making stupid clever remarks. He was smart and sharp and thoughtful and funny, and… He was special. He was special to her — more special than she had the words or the courage to admit.

So somewhere in her weird and wounded mind, Tamaris was starting to think that if she delayed the sex until the time was a little more… well, special than their usual post-training necking, then maybe he’d understand how she felt about him without her having to find the balls to say it.

It was a convoluted idea, and she was of half a mind to just tell Felassan that this was why she hadn’t yet asked him to fuck her again. But that would involve telling him in detail how she felt, and she just… her heart still quailed at the thought of putting so much on the line just yet.

Felassan was still smiling wickedly at her. She smiled back awkwardly and dropped her gaze to her plate.

He chuckled and picked up his fork. “Well, anytime you want me to make you sweat, all you have to do is say the word.”

She took another bite of her food and mumbled something indistinct, both grateful for his lack of pressure and annoyed at herself in equal measure. They spent the rest of the meal discussing Varric and Cassandra and the fact that Varric had written a sequel to Swords and Shields just for her, and by the time Tamaris was washing the dishes, Felassan had come to the conclusion that Varric and Cassandra were secretly in love and had simply failed to admit their feelings to each other.

Tamaris shook her head. “No. It’s not possible.”

“Not possible?” Felassan said. “That’s a strong statement from someone who’s seen the range of bizarre things that you have.”

She snorted a laugh at this. “Okay, maybe not impossible, but really unlikely.”

He leaned against the counter beside her and folded his arms. “Explain.”

She rinsed a plate and propped it in the dish drainer. “Honestly, the main reason is that Varric is…” She paused before she could tell him about Varric and Bianca. For all that Varric was good at coaxing out people’s secrets, he was a very private person himself. It wasn’t Tamaris’s place to tell Felassan about his affair with Bianca.

“He’s not interested in having a relationship,” she said finally.

“Because of Bianca?” Felassan said.

Tamaris’s jaw dropped. “How — how do you know about her?”

He grinned. “I don’t. Or I didn’t, until you just confirmed it now.”

She gaped at him. “Wha— but where — how did you know to ask about that?”

“The crossbow named Bianca,” Felassan said. “He mentions it in This Shit Is Weird. It had to be named after someone important.” He shrugged casually. “People don’t usually name their favoured weapons after random strangers, after all.”

Tamaris stared at him for another second, then closed her mouth and started washing another pan. Felassan titled his head curiously. “What’s the story there, then?” he asked. “Not unrequited love; that fades eventually with nothing to supply it. A wife who passed away, perhaps?”

Tamaris pursed her lips, and Felassan nodded. “Ah. Something that’s still ongoing, then. An affair that never petered out, probably. That would make a great deal of sense.”

She smacked him with her soapy sponge. “Stop that! Stop being a spy at me!”

He flinched away from her sponge and laughed. “I can’t help it, avise. It’s in my nature. But if it makes you feel better, I’m not going to tell anyone.”

She scowled at his shit-eating grin, then went back to scrubbing the pan with more vigour. “Well, don’t go talking to Varric about it. He’ll think I told you.”

“My lips are sealed,” he said. “But really, there is immense potential for a relationship between Varric and Cassandra. She loves romance, he wrote her a romance novel, they exchange letters frequently…” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You should invite her to come stay here. We could invite Varric over for dinner, then sit back and watch how things play out. It would be immensely entertaining.”

Tamaris couldn’t help it. She laughed. “You are not going to play matchmaker for Varric and Cassandra.”

“Why not?” he said with a grin. “You don’t think I could?”

She tsked. “That’s not the point,” she said. Then she turned to face him and propped one fist on her hip. “Look, what makes you think you’re such an expert on love, anyway?”

“I know a great deal about love,” he said complacently. “I’m a great observer of it, after all.”

She wrinkled her nose and started drying the dishes with a towel. “Are you telling me you’re a secret pervert who watches through people’s windows or something?”

He let out a lovely rolling laugh. “No, felasil’ain. I was a spy, remember, and a very good one. And secrets of the heart are the easiest to exploit.”

She went still at this. “What do you mean?”

“Some of the most important information a spy can collect is the bonds between people,” he said. “Who is married or partnered to whom, who is sleeping with whom, how people are related, who has children and who they have children with…” He shrugged and folded his arms once more. “If you know who a person loves, you know their greatest weaknesses.”

She stared at him. A cold sort of ache was stealing through her chest. “Is that really how you feel?”

“It’s not how I feel. It’s the simple truth,” he said. He raised an eyebrow. “Your spymaster must have told you this if she is worth her salt.”

“I mean, I guess she did,” Tamaris said blankly. “But that’s Leliana. She’s… terrifying in a quiet kind of way.”

He widened his eyes. “And I’m not? That hurts.”

She didn’t laugh. She stared at him in bemusement, and he gave her a little half-smile. “Go on, speak your mind. I can take it.”

She shook her head slightly. “I just… How are you not more cynical?”

He tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

She put the towel on the counter. “If you spent years and years exploiting people’s relationships as weaknesses, how are you so…” How are you so open to falling in love with me? she wondered, but she couldn’t quite get the words out.

She didn’t need to, however; Felassan’s expression softened slightly, like he understood what she was trying to say. “Just because a relationship can be exploited doesn’t mean the relationship is unhealthy or tawdry,” he said. “Some of the most easily exploited bonds are the ones that are most true. No one is more easily manipulated than a person who truly loves another.”

She stared at him, struck dumb by the cold brutality of his words. He gave her a half-smile and took over drying the dishes. “Try not to disdain me too much, avise. I’ve done many things in the service of a better world, and I don’t regret them. This is just one of many.”

She studied him for a moment longer, then suddenly hugged him around the waist.

He stiffened with surprise for a second, then carefully draped his arm around her. “What’s this for?” he said softly. “Not that I’m complaining.”

She swallowed hard. “I’m sorry you had to do that,” she mumbled. “That sounds… it sounds fucking awful.”

He squeezed her shoulder soothingly. “You have no need to feel sorry for me. Nothing I did as a spy for Fen’Harel was against my will. Against my better judgment at times, perhaps, but never against my will.” He shrugged. “Some things need to be burned down. Some of the most beautiful flowers are those that grow from the ashes that which has burnt away.”

She pressed her lips together. Her throat was thickening with tears for some reason, and she couldn’t decide whether they were for Felassan or for the world he’d lost, or for the simple fact that she could understand his point, horrible though it was.

She held him tightly for a moment longer, then abruptly released him and started to leave the kitchen. “I’ll be in the library. When you’re—”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her to a stop. “Tamaris.”

He was gazing at her very intensely, and she swallowed hard before speaking. “Yeah?”

“There are some things I would never exploit,” he said.

She frowned slightly. “What do you…” She trailed off with a jolt. He meant… did he mean her?

Her eyes widened. It hadn’t even occurred to her that he would try to use her feelings against her. “I know that,” she said. “I know you wouldn’t… I know.”

“Do you?” he said quietly. But she knew what he really meant. Did she believe it?

“Yes, I… I do,” she said. And to her great surprise, she actually did.

They stared at each other for a moment longer. Then Felassan smiled and released her hand. “I’ll see you in the library when I’m done with these,” he said.

Tamaris nodded, then went to the library and sat on the rug. For a minute she just sat there staring vacantly at the bookshelves, stunned by the fact that she hadn’t even thought of the possibility that Felassan would use her feelings for him as leverage. What did that mean, that she hadn’t thought of it? Did it mean she was being stupid and incautious by having feelings for him? If a master spy told her that love was a weakness, then she should probably listen, shouldn’t she?

Or did her lack of suspicion just mean that she was on her way to being cured of the wound that Solas had dealt her?

A few minutes later, Felassan padded into the library with a smile. “Ready to fight?”

She looked up, then nodded and rose to her feet. As always, they started with a little warm-up where both of them practiced casting some barriers, then moved onto Felassan throwing ice at Tamaris’s barriers to practice his attack strength. By the time they were warmed up and ready to really start sparring, Tamaris already had a light sheen of sweat along her hairline and the back of her neck.

She wiped her brow, and Felassan smiled. “I told you I would make you sweat.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “I always sweat when we do this. Besides, you’re sweating too.”

He shot her a roguish grin, then twisted his wrist and produced a small swirling cloud of ice that hovered over his palm. “Ready?”

She nodded and pulled a practice dagger — also known as a golden dinner knife — from the back of her belt. “Go,” she said.

He flicked his wrist and threw the ice at her. She rolled toward him to dodge it and narrowly dodged another iceball, then brought the knife toward Felassan’s thigh.

The knife glanced off of his barrier — a barrier he’d quickly raised a mere second before her strike. By the time she had the knife drawn back once more to strike, he had skipped a couple of meters away from her, and another ball of ice was glittering over his open palm.

She exhaled sharply and cast a barrier, then rushed him at the same moment that he threw the ice. A second later, she was trying to push the knife toward his neck while his ice-encrusted hand gripped her wrist to hold her back.

She gritted her teeth and tried to withstand the cold, but it was too much; she finally gasped in pain and dropped the knife, and Felassan released his breath in a heavy sigh. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded and idly rubbed her chilled wrist, then shot him a wry smile. “If I’d come at you with my left hand, you’d be a dead man.”

“Are you holding back on me, then?” he asked. “Come at me with that lovely metal hand. Don’t be shy.”

She shrugged and picked up the knife in her left hand. “Fine. Just remember you asked for it.” She twirled the knife over her metal fingers, then rushed him suddenly.

Felassan lashed out with a sustained blast of ice, but Tamaris repelled it with her barrier and brought the knife toward his belly in a swift strike, and they both froze; her knife was pressed against his abs, but his frozen hand was wrapped around her throat.

She stopped breathing. Her eyes darted up to his face, and his frozen hand instantly warmed back to a normal temperature. But he didn’t let her go, and she didn’t step away.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked.

He sounded slightly breathless, and his chest was rising and falling heavily. She swallowed hard. “I’ll tell you if you hurt me,” she panted. “Otherwise, you can assume I’m fine.”

“Good,” he said. His thumb drifted slowly along the edge of her jaw.

A ripple of heat bloomed low in her belly, and she gasped. Then she stepped away from him. “Ready?” she breathed.

He smiled at her — a slow and rather predatory smile. “Always.”

She grinned at him, and they continued to spar for a while longer. They were quite well-matched, considering that they were both training outside of their comfort zones: Felassan would usually have shirked close-quarters combat, and Tamaris would usually have stuck to stealth tactics that would prevent her from being a target of magical attacks. As a consequence, their sparring sessions were both challenging and satisfying. Aside from the obvious benefit of getting Felassan to practice his magical control while Tamaris boosted her barriers, they were both practicing forms of combat that neither of them was particularly well-versed in, and Tamaris was certain that the practice would do them good in the future.

Twenty minutes later, both of them were sweating and panting for breath, and Tamaris had bested Felassan just over half of the time. They took a brief break to drink some water, and Tamaris admired the sheen of sweat on Felassan’s collarbones and the notch at the base of his throat while he gulped down a goblet of water.

He lowered the goblet and looked at her, and a knowing smile turned up the corners of his lips. Before he could call her out for staring, she hastily spoke. “I think you should start practicing other kinds of attacks soon,” she said. “Fire or lightning.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You think that’s a good idea?”

“You have to do it eventually,” she reasoned. “If anything goes up in flames, you can just put it out with ice.”

His eyebrows creased. “I’m more concerned about injuring you inadvertently.”

She shrugged. “I can heal minor wounds, no problem. Besides, don’t you have that extra-potent royal elfroot salve for heavy-duty wounds and burns?”

He huffed in amusement. “I do, but that doesn’t mean I want to use it on you.”

She titled her head playfully. “You’re insulting me by assuming you’ll actually land a hit.”

He grinned at her, then shrugged and put the goblet down. “We can’t have that. Fine, you win. I’ll start practicing with the fire and lightning tomorrow. Are you ready to continue with the ice for now?” He pulled up the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face, and Tamaris openly stared at the cut lines of his abs.

He dropped his shirt back into place, then tilted his head. “Tamaris,” he said drolly.

She snapped her eyes up to his face. “What?” she said defensively.

He sauntered toward her in an annoyingly confident way. “Irritable,” he remarked. “You must be horny.”

“You are,” she retorted, very cleverly. She pulled the dinner knife from her belt and twirled it over the fingers of her real hand.

He chuckled and reached for her chin. Tamaris knocked his hand away with her prosthetic hand and brought the knife up toward his throat.

To her surprise, he swiftly brought his other hand up and blocked her strike, then grabbed her right wrist and pulled her closer. Caught off-guard and off-balance, she stumbled into his chest.

She braced her metal hand against his abs, and he stroked her chin with his thumb. “I never said I wasn’t,” he murmured.

She stared up at him, breathless with desire and snared by the brilliant heat in his eyes. He smelled so good, like sleep and soap and the sweet masculine musk of sweat, and his lips were a breath away from hers, and… fuck, he wasn’t wrong. She was terribly horny.

But they’d only been training for less than an hour. They usually went for at least two hours before taking a break to do… other things. Very reluctantly, she stepped away from him. “Come on, we can go a little longer—”

He pulled her back against his chest and kissed her, and her lips instantly melted open for him with a little whimper of pleasure and surprise. His arm was curled tightly around her waist to hold her close, and Tamaris moaned into his lips as the hard ridge of his erection pressed into her belly through their clothes.

He released her wrist to cradle her neck instead, and Tamaris blissfully melted into him. A few seconds later, however, he froze.

He smiled slowly against her lips. “You fight dirty.”

Sure enough, she had the dinner knife pressed to his belly. “You started it,” she whispered.

His smile widened, and he loosened his arm around her waist so she could step away. “All right,” he said. “I understand the rules now.”

“Oh really?” she said playfully. “What rules are those?”

“There aren’t any,” he said, and he grabbed for her.

She dodged away from him and barked out a laugh. “Felassan! We need to train!”

“We are training,” he said, and he conjured another ball of ice. “But you’d better not let me catch you if you want to keep this up.”

Suddenly, the game was twisted on its head: Felassan was the one in pursuit while Tamaris tried to repel his attacks and keep him at a distance. She managed to keep him back for a good ten minutes, but her lack of stamina for barriers was ultimately her downfall; Felassan hit her shoulder with a small blast of ice, and she stumbled and fell onto her butt with an oomph.

An instant later, he was on his knees in front of her and tenderly smoothing his hand along her arm. “Fenedhis. Are you hurt? Is it—?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she panted. “It’s nothing.”

He smoothed his palm over her shoulder and cradled her neck in his palm. “Are you sure?”

“I — yes, I’m sure,” she said breathlessly. He was so close to her now, but everything about him was just making her want him even closer. The warmth of his palm on her sweat-laced neck and the intensity of his violet eyes, and gods, the smell of his skin…

She licked her lips, and Felassan’s face lifted into a heated smile. “I think this means I won this round,” he said.

She scoffed. “Uh-huh. Are you going to gloat about it now?”

“Not at all,” he said. “But now that I struck you down...” He shifted closer on his knees and brushed his thumb along the tendon in her neck.

A shiver of pleasure ran down the side of her throat. She lifted her chin to grant him easier access to her neck, and he chuckled. “Should I accept this as your willing surrender?” he asked.

“You talk too much,” she complained breathily. Then she gasped as his lips brushed over the side of her neck.

He kissed her neck very gently, soft open-mouthed kisses with just a hint of tongue, and Tamaris abruptly gave up pretending that she had any lingering interest in sparring. She grabbed his shirt and pulled, wanting him to kiss her neck with more teeth and tongue and pressure, but he continued the torturously gentle tease of his mouth along the side of her throat.

“Felassan,” she whined.

“Yes, Tamaris?” he murmured. He lapped at her neck with tiny teasing flicks of his tongue, then grazed her neck very gently with his teeth.

She panted and tugged at his shirt. “More,” she said bluntly.

He chuckled, then slid his hand over her waist and pulled on her hip. “Come here, then.”

She hastily followed the pull of his hand, and a second later she was straddling him. She tilted her hips down to try and meet the hardness between his legs while also craning her neck to the side so he would kiss her neck some more, and Felassan obliged her with a firm open-mouthed kiss against the side of her throat. His hands were roaming firmly over her body, his fingers sliding over her thighs and hips and up inside the back of her shirt to clench against her shoulder blades, and Tamaris twisted her fingers in his shirt and stroked his neck as he lavished her neck with kisses.

He nipped her neck, then started sucking on her sweat-laced skin, and she burst out a little cry at the pressure of his mouth. “Yes,” she gasped, and she twisted her hips down to rub more firmly against his groin.

He lifted his face with a gasp, then groaned and bucked his hips to meet her, and then they were moving together in an uncoordinated and torturous bump-and-grind as they tried to find some satisfaction through their clothes.

Felassan’s arm was like a steel band around her waist, and his breath was hot against her sternum. He braced himself with one hand on the floor to try and lift himself more firmly against her, but a second later he burst out a frustrated groan.

“Ar isala mithelma,” he moaned. He licked her collarbone, and Tamaris gasped and clenched her fingers against his neck; he was pulling at the neckline of her shirt and licking the skin below her collarbone now, and his mouth was close enough to the upper swell of her breast that it was forcing a dizzying surge of anticipation to pool between her legs.

He moaned again and lowered his face to nuzzle her breast through her shirt, and Tamaris made a snap decision: she abruptly shifted away from him.

He looked up at her in surprise. “What’s wr–?” Then he broke off with a gasp: Tamaris was straddling one of his legs now instead of his lap, and she was pulling eagerly at the button fly of his loose breeches.

His eyes flicked feverishly from her face to her hands and back, and another dizzying pulse of want bloomed low in her belly; his eyes were glowing faintly with magic now. He squeezed her arm. “Tamaris,” he panted. “Are you–”

“No, no,” she said hastily as she pulled on his fly. “I don’t – I’m not going to fuck you. I just want to…” She trailed off distractedly and stared at his cock; it was a hard rise thrusting eagerly up from the opening in his breeches, and there was a bead of moisture at the tip.

She smoothed her thumb over the head of his cock and sucked his primal flavour off of her thumb, and Felassan eagerly bucked his hips. “You are going to be the end of me,” he groaned.

She smiled at him, but she couldn't think of a clever reply; she was too distracted by how beautiful he was, and it wasn't just his good looks that she was admiring. It was how obviously desperate he was. His face was twisted with desire, his eyes glowing and his ears flushed pink and his lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. He was so desperate, desperate her despite her twisted wounds, and these three days of rain-imposed confinement had been so hard on him, and she just… he was so fucking special, and Tamaris wanted to make him feel good.

She wrapped her fist around his cock and squeezed, and Felassan made the most wonderful guttural sound of pleasure. Encouraged by his enjoyment, she stroked his cock for a moment, then quickly spat into her palm and continued stroking him more smoothly.

He moaned and twined his fingers in the hair at her nape, then pulled her close for a kiss, and Tamaris eagerly accepted the twisting warmth of his tongue as she stroked his cock. In a matter of short minutes, he was shifting restlessly beneath her and the thick length of his shaft was growing even stiffer beneath her palm, and when he broke their kiss to breathe erratically against her lips, she knew he was close.

“Do you want to come in my mouth?” she asked.

To her mild surprise, he shook his head. “No,” he breathed. “No, kiss me. Tamaris, kiss me, ah–”

She kissed him hard. An instant later, he was clasping her neck and her hair in both hands and moaning uninhibitedly into her mouth as his seed spurted hotly over her hand.

She delved her tongue into his mouth and squeezed his pulsing cock. He shuddered beneath her and dragged both of his hands through her hair, and the firm feel of his fingers on her scalp sent an icy-hot wave of pleasure from the crown of her head down the back of her neck.

They kissed hungrily until his shuddering grew still. Then Tamaris gently broke their kiss and glanced down at his crotch.

She winced at the mess; his climax was most evident on his shirt and breeches, but a little bit had spattered the hem of her shirt as well.

“Fuck. Guess we’ll need to do laundry,” she said. She wiped her hand on his shirt and started shifting off of his leg.

He banded his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Laundry?” he said. “You’re thinking about laundry right now?”

His voice was husky with pleasure and even more vibrant with laughter. She smiled and patted his shoulders. “Yep. I’m thinking about laundry,” she teased. “Do you want to help me with it, or–”

He slid his fingers under the hem of her shirt to splay on her belly, and she broke off with a gasp. His fingers were moving steadily up over her ribs, and when his thumb brushed over the cup of her bra, she mewled and dug her fingers into his shoulders.

He chuckled softly. “What I want, avise, is to reciprocate. If you’ll allow it.”

She curled her hips toward him. “Y-you don’t have to,” she stammered. “That’s not why I…” She trailed off distractedly as his fingers slipped back down over her belly to hook into the drawstring waistband of her pants.

“I know I don’t have to. I want to,” he murmured. “This may come as a surprise to you, but I deeply enjoy watching you squirm.”

She burst out a breathless little laugh. “Smug asshole.”

“I’ll allow your insult since you made me come so well,” he said. He gestured at her pants. “May I?”

She nodded eagerly, and Felassan deftly loosened the drawstring of her pants. “Rise up,” he told her.

She lifted herself higher on her knees. Felassan angled his wrist and started sliding his hand into her pants, and Tamaris held her breath as his fingers slipped down beneath her navel, then just above her sex, then–

He pressed his middle finger into her slippery cleft, and she twisted her fingers in his shirt and mewled with pleasure. He was caressing the swollen bud of her clit with careful little strokes, and the pressure and rhythm of his finger was so perfect that she didn’t even want to move her hips for fear of spoiling what he was doing so well.

Felassan exhaled shakily and looked up at her, and if possible, her lust throbbed even higher; his eyes were bright with a hot amethyst glow, and he somehow looked just as aroused now as when she was stroking his cock. He slid his fingers a little deeper into her pants and caressed her folds, and when she jerked her hips and moaned, he exhaled hard.

“You feel incredible,” he rasped. “Like a wet dream come true.”

She laughed shakily at his compliment. “You don’t have dreams, thanks to your fancy tea.”

“And I’m glad for that,” he said with a grin. “This reality is so much better.” He adjusted the angle of his hand to continue stroking her clit, and Tamaris released a breathy moan and clutched his shoulders. He breathed hard as he petted her clit, and Tamaris blissfully tilted her head back so his breath would drift hotly across her neck.

His nose brushed over her exposed sternum, and she eagerly arched her chest toward him. He hummed with pleasure, and without stopping the perfect rhythm of his fingers, he nuzzled her breast and gently bit her nipple through her shirt and bra.

“Fuck,” she whined, and she cradled his head in her hands. He growled and continued trying to bite her nipple through her clothes, but his attempts were both arousing and frustrating thanks to her fucking clothes, and his finger was so persistent and smooth between her legs and it felt so fucking good, fuck–

She came with a guttural cry and dug her fingers into his neck, and Felassan let out a breathy little laugh. “Good girl,” he crooned.

To her surprise, his words and his smooth voice lifted a sudden jolt of excitement between her legs, kicking her climax even higher. She whimpered wordlessly, unable to reply for the pleasure that was pulsing in her throat.

When she could open her eyes again, she twisted his ear. “I told you not to call me that,” she scolded.

He laughed and batted at her hand. “I think you liked it.”

“I did not,” she retorted, but she was smiling like a fucking idiot, and this only made Felassan laugh harder.

He carefully pulled his hand out of her pants, running his finger firmly along the length of her slippery cleft as he did, and Tamaris gasped as the stroke of his finger lifted a fresh wave of lust through her just-sated body.

He showed her his lust-slicked fingers. “Whether you liked it or not, this is very good,” he purred. He dipped his middle finger into his mouth and sucked, and Tamaris gaped stupidly at him as he licked her nectar from his fingers. When his fingers were clean, he cupped her neck in his palm and pulled her close for a kiss, and the taste of her arousal on his lips only made her more riled up.

She whimpered and pressed her fingers into his abs, but Felassan peeled away from her lips after just a few blissful seconds. Then he patted her bum casually. “Come on, avise. We should get changed. I’ve been told that there’s very important laundry to do.” He slid out from beneath her and stood up, and Tamaris stared at him as he sauntered out of the library.

She sat there on the floor throbbing with unfulfilled lust for a few seconds, then let out an incredulous little laugh and flopped onto her back. Fucking Felassan, she thought with a mixture of amusement and frustration. He knew exactly what he was doing when he left her in this state, the smug bastard.

She closed her eyes and sighed, feeling oddly content despite the unfulfilled pulse of want that was still coursing through her body. Then Felassan’s voice rang out from the upper floor. “Tamaris!”

She instantly sat upright. He didn’t sound upset, but why was he yelling? “What?” she called back. “What’s wrong?”

“Come up here!” he yelled.

Alarmed now, she rose to her feet and bolted out of the library. She skidded through the main room and ran up the stairs, intent on heading to his room, but as she passed her bedroom door, she stumbled to a stop.

Felassan was in her room and standing at the window. She stepped into her room and strode toward him. “What?” she said urgently. “What’s going on?”

He beamed at her, and the boyish excitement in his face stole her breath for a moment. “The rain has stopped,” he said.

She raised her eyebrows. “Actually stopped?” she said. “Not just drizzling?” She sidled up to the window and looked outside; sure enough, it had finally stopped raining, and there was even a feeble beam of sunlight illuminating the quiet alley below.

“Come to the roof with me,” Felassan said, and he started climbing out of the window.

“Hang on, but – you didn’t change,” she protested. He was still wearing the same messy clothes from their tryst in the library.

He shot her a cheeky grin. “I doubt anyone will notice. Besides, nobody ever looks up, remember?”

Her heart did a little flip at the reminder of the first day they’d met. She scoffed, but Felassan was already disappearing through the window.

She shook her head in exasperation, but she couldn’t blame him for wanting to spend some time on the roof after three long days of being stuck indoors. Besides, it would be nice to get some fresh rain-scented air, even if it was still city air.

With that pleasant thought, Tamaris slid out of the window to join him.

#felassan #save felassan #felassan romance #felassan/lavellan #felassan x lavellan #the love that grows from violence #pikapeppa writes

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nerdanel01 · 5 years ago

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TIOF 26: Suledin

Imshael loomed over Thanduwen as she fought to catch her breath. “Your friends are very persistent,” they said, appraising the force and flurry of their magic. “And very violent. What company you keep, Inquisitor.”

Thanduwen spat back, “Better company than the traitor Templars.”

Imshael laughed, low in their throat. “Ahh, but I am not a Templar, am I? Perhaps you will not negotiate with Samson’s men, but I am not the first spirit you have treated with.”

“You are a demon. ”

Imshael turned their head, a knowing look on their face. Then Thanduwen felt it—cold horror paralyzed her as she felt the demon prying into her mind, reaching for her secrets. Their smile widened.

“Demon, spirit. Inquisitor, murderer. That’s just a matter of perspective, is it not?” Their gaze moved—slowly, purposefully, that she might notice—to settle over Solas, where he stood, weary, still trying in vain to bring down Imshael’s barrier. “Or at least, is that not what your beloved flat-ear would have you believe?”

The horror within her stiffened into something sharp, defiant. Thanduwen pushed, trying to repel the demon from her mind, but she felt Imshael dig in, holding on.

Imshael closed seven of their nine eyes, an almost peaceful smile stretching his lips. (The other two remained, as a matter of caution, fixed on her.) “He walks the ancient ways, he whispers empty promises, plots plans that you arewoefullyunprepared to put into action. But I can help you,” Imshael said, the demon’s voice as warm and caring as a mother’s.

“The answers you seek? I have them. I have watched the ages of this world pass, have seen firsthand the injustices perpetrated against your people. I can give you the power to avenge them—to restore them.”

Imshael was a dark shadow, an insidious presence in her mind, lurking in the corners. They reached for Thanduwen’s desires and spoke them aloud, offering them to her. Power, vengeance—she wanted these things, yes. But not like this. “I would rather die than bargain with you.”

“That might yet be arranged,” Imshael said, lips splitting to reveal long, sharp teeth. The barrier above them shimmered; Thanduwen saw, in the center of Imshael’s clawed palm, the crackle and spit of summoned lightning. Half the pairs of the demon’s eyes found Solas across the courtyard—and Thanduwen realized, her heart sinking into her stomach, that the barrier was wavering not because of the strength of her companion’s magic, but because Imshael was toying with the idea of dispelling it, waiting for an opportunity to catch the others off guard.

“I wonder,” Imshael mused. “You have no interest in bargaining for your own life—but what would you trade for his?”

The threat was past her lips before she could stop it, ripped from her out of instinct before Thanduwen had the good sense to realize how utterly ridiculous it was: “Lay a finger on him, Imshael, and I promise, I will repay whatever injury you inflict on him tenfold.”

But the strength of her denial (her sheer stubbornness ) forced the demon from her mind, enough to expel them (at least, for the moment.) Imshael, however, was unperturbed by the sudden eviction—they had learned enough.

The demon laughed, a great spark of mirth so loud Thanduwen could feel the floor of the keep beneath her vibrating with it.

“Such loyalty, such devotion!” Imshael beamed, grinning at her. “Such love, when you know so little about him—you have given him your love for nearly a year, and still he does not trust you with his true name.”

It took all of the combined wisdom of Josephine, Dorian and Vivienne—all the months of studying the Game, preparing for the Orlesian ball—all the strength they had built within her, bestowed upon her—for Thanduwen to keep her face in check. Already she had fallen, and now, Thanduwen felt as though she’d been punched in the gut. A chill stole over her. She no longer saw Imshael above her—she saw every moment Solas had pulled away from her, every distant look in his eyes, every hesitation.

She had never accused him of lying, but she would have been a fool not to see that he kept secrets.

“He calls himself Solas,” Thanduwen replied, steadily, with feigned confidence. “That is name enough for me.”

“He names himself ‘Pride!’” the demon crowed. “Your people are scattered, their culture stolen, but surely, Daughter of Soufei, you know enough of the old language that this is no surprise to you!You, First of Clan Lavellan. Tell me, Sael Thanduwen, Child of the Dales,” Imshael said, looming over her, practically on top of her. Their voice took on the intimate whisper of a close, concerned confidant:

“Who would call themselves by such a name, other than the hotheaded—the power-hungry and the deluded? So surprised at the Warden’s betrayal, Dales-Daughter, but you are surrounded by liars, deceivers, and traitors all—none can be trusted—megalomaniacs, the lot of them, if you dig down deep enough.”

“Look at him,” Imshael continued, turning their eyes to Solas. Thanduwen followed the demon’s gaze: Solas was pulling the snow from the air around him and sharpening it to points, relentlessly, endlessly flinging his magic against the barrier. Thanduwen watched the sluggishness of his step; it looked like he was barely able to keep on his feet. But still Solas’ face was set with fierce defiance, a refusal to surrender.

“All that pride, even when he is defeated,” Imshael mused aloud. “Don’t you want to know what he is hiding beneath it? Isn’t it just killing you?”

“He does not hide from me,” Thanduwen retorted, but doubt had stolen into her heart. Her voice was less self-assured; when the demon Imshael sought her eyes, she did not meet their challenge.

Again, Imshael laughed. This time, however, the sound did not shake the Keep to its foundations; this time it was like a purr, pleased-clever-cunning.

“You are green in this world, Child of the Dales, but not so blind as that.”

The great demon shifted their leg back and knelt over her, lording over their captured prey. They bent their head close enough that when they spoke, Thanduwen could count their teeth—she smelt the foulness of the demon’s breath.

“Just because he has undressed for you, that doesn’t make him naked,” Imshael whispered, sweetly. “What questions have haunted you in the dark, when he is off on another journey, without you? Where is it that he goes beyond the Veil, the paths where you cannot follow?”

Imshael leaned nearer, spoke the next words with great relish:

“Truthfully, does he even really love you?” _______________________________________________________ There Is Only Forward | Solas x F!Lavellan longfic | 200k+ wc [ read current chapter : Suledin ] [ read from beginning ]

#solas #lavellan #fen'harel #solavellan #dragon age #dai #trespasser #dai fic #dragon age fanfic #tiof

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in-arlathan · 4 years ago

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Running With The Halla

[Read on AO3]

Pairing: Solas x f!Lavellan | Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Mutual Pining, and more | Rating: Explicit | Warnings: Depiction of Violence, Grief/Mourning, Referenced Deaths

→ Please mind the full list of tags on AO3

A/N: You waited so long for the last chapter, so have this one as a treat! ♥︎ Why did nobody tell me that it’s fun to write from Josie’s and Varric’s POV? It was insane! I hope you enjoy this. Happy Reading!

_____

Chapter 4 – A Tale of Choice and Consequence

A perfect quiet had fallen over Skyhold when Leliana’s agent came to wake Josephine. He knocked on her door politely and whispered her name in fear of alarming her with his presence. His worries had been for naught, though. The Lady Ambassador was still wide awake, penning letters and making plans for the day ahead.

“Yes?” she asked, looking up from the piece of paper before her and casting a glance at the window. It had to be way past midnight. The sky was dark and covered with clouds that blocked the light of the full moon. Most of the fires in Skyhold had long since gone out as the inhabitants of the fortress had retreated to their quarters. These hours of silent contemplation were the ones that Josephine found most useful. Without the hustle and bustle of the day, she finally had time to really focus and give her full attention to matters that could not be done half-heartedly.

The agent – dressed in the same attire as all of the Inquisition’s spies – slithered inside like a silky shadow. There was merely a soft wooden thud when he closed the door behind him again. His face was stern when he approached Josephine who still sat behind a desk.

“What is it?” the ambassador asked, eyeing the man curiously.

“Sister Nightingale sent me,” he explained and bowed his head in a way of greeting. “She said she needed to talk to you. Immediately.”

Josephine raised an eyebrow at the man. Leliana wanted to speak with her? Now?

“Did she tell you what this was about?” she asked, although she already knew the answer.

“No, my lady. I’m afraid you’ll have to ask her yourself. She is up in the rookery, waiting for you.”

“Of course, she is,” Josephine said more grimly than she intended and rubbed her eyes. She hadn’t noticed how tired she was before. That, at least, explained her lack of manners. With a sigh, she dropped her pen in the ink fountain on her desk, rose from her seat, and gifted the agent with an apologetic smile. “Thank you for your service. I will meet with her straight away.”

The agent bowed his head again and backed away. A moment later, he had vanished as if he’d never been there.

When she was certain that the door had closed behind the agent once more, Josephine let out another sigh. A deeper one, this time. This doesn’t bode well, she thought as she slipped into the pair of shoes she had left next to her bed and a knot of worry began to tighten in her guts.

If Leliana saw the need to summon her in the middle of the night when everyone was vast asleep, the matter had to be of utmost importance. This could either mean she had received new reports from the Western Approach or that something else had arisen that needed to be handled carefully.

By the grace of our Lady Andraste, please don’t let this be news from Wycome.

[Continue on AO3]

#dragon age #fanfiction #running with the halla #solavellan #solas x lavellan #solas x female lavellan #my work

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thevikingwoman · 6 years ago

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More threesome - this one is explicit.

Ellana belongs to @buttsonthebeach. Thank you again my dear, for being part of this adventure :)

I better add: thanks to @ellstersmash for inspiration ;)

Ellana Lavellan x Iwyn Lavellan x Solas | Modern AU | romance/smut rating: explicit, smut, fluff, ot3, f/f/m, very very light dom/sub, oral

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Ao3 (all parts together)

Together

Iwyn’s apartment is only a few blocks away, and before long she unlocks her door. A little more than a week ago, she finished unpacking her things, and a few days ago she kissed Solas goodbye on the sidewalk below, with a promise of another date.

“Here we are,” she says, and turns on hallway light. She places her keys in their bowl on her small table. She takes off her jacket and her boots.

Ellana has already pushed past her, curiously peering into Iwyn’s living room.

“You found a great place, Iwyn. I love the lights.” She gestures to the fairy lights in Iwyn’s window, above the mass of greenery on the windowsill.

“Thank you,” Iwyn says.

She turns and finds Solas with his shoes off, clutching his jacket in both hands.

“The hooks are on the right, in the nook,” she says needlessly. “Or I can get you a hanger if you need one.”

“It’s fine, thank you,” he says, but he makes no move to let go of his jacket. “I can leave if this is not – I don’t want to –”

“What do you want, Solas?” He suggested this, but she understands if he’s changed his mind. Her own is still in shambles, despite the warm feeling of having them both in her new home.

“Let’s find out,” Ellana says, done with her curiosity about Iwyn’s place. She steps around Iwyn and grabs Solas by the collar, pulling him down for a kiss. It looks sinful and arousing, and a small sound escapes her lips. Looking at them fills her with need.

They break apart, and Ellana turns to her, and kisses her. Iwyn opens her mouth instantly, seeking the other woman’s heat. Her lips are just as soft as they look. When they part, Ellana smiles at her, and tilts her head towards Solas. Iwyn takes Solas woolen coat, and hangs it next to her’s and Ellana’s. She pushes him against the opposite wall, and when she stands on her toes, he surges down for her lips. His mouth is open and willing, his kiss passionate. It adds fire to her arousal. She can feel his too, where he is pressed against her.

“I’ll stay then,” Solas says, his voice low.

“Do you want to get a drink and go talk? I’m good with birth control, but if there is anything else… or the bedroom is down there, on the right.”

“Bedroom,” Ellana says. “Birth control not an issue for me either.”

“Good,” she says, thankful for modern medicinal magic.

Her friend’s boldness comforts her, the rightness of it all settling into her.

She grabs both Ellana’s and Solas’ hands and pulls them down the hall, into her bedroom. She pushes Solas back on the bed and pulls Ellana with her. For a while it is only heat and kisses and bodies. Lips and moans and roaming hands.

“Undress,” Iwyn says, and she starts by taking off her top. Solas pulls back and starts shedding his clothes.

“Who put you in charge?” Ellana grins, and she reaches behind Iwyn to unhook her bra. Iwyn has no good answers, and instead captures Ellana’s lips with her own. She pulls down Ellana’s pants, which had already been undone earlier. Iwyn’s hand glider lower, beneath Ellana’s lacy underwear until her hand rests on Ellana’s sex. Iwyn growls and bites Ellana’s lip.

Iwyn moves her fingers lower, slowly teasing Ellana while their lips and tongues slide together. She pushes one finger between Ellana’s folds, and she finds her wet and wanting and moaning, her hips bucking to meet her hand. Ellana’s hands are grabbing her ass fiercely, then pulling on her skirt.

She pulls back to undress completely, reluctantly leaving Ellana’s heat. Solas is naked, half sitting in her bed. He looks good, his eyes hooded, and his skin is flushed. His hand is on his cock, stroking it lazily.

“Seems like someone didn’t mind being told what to do,” Iwyn says, and crawls up the bed. Her hand touches his leg, slowly and deliberately sliding it from his ankle to his hip.

Solas nods and licks his lips. “It has a certain appeal.”

“Good,” Ellana purrs. She is on the other side of Solas, her hand on his thigh in a mirror of Iwyn’s own. She is overwhelmed with the options, she wants to touch Ellana again, to reach out and feel her breasts under her hands. She wants to kiss her way up Solas chest, she wants to kiss his pink lips, or Ellana’s darker ones.

Ellana doesn’t wait for her action. “Lie back, and don’t touch,” she says, and she bats Solas’ hands away from his cock. He obediently lets his hands rest at his side, fisting in the sheets when Ellana bends and licks his cock from the root to the tip. Solas groans and his hip bucks, his arousal feeding Iwyn’s own. His reactions are so strong, she wants to take him apart completely. She slides her hands up his chest, and teases his nipples. She is rewarded with small sounds and deep moan when she pinches a little harder.

She gazes over her shoulder, where Ellana is working Solas with her hands and her mouth. She is teasing him, kissing the inside of his thighs, licking his cock. He is throbbing, hard and ready. Ellana winks at her and Iwyn turns where she is, one leg on each side of Solas broad chest. She leans forward on her hands and adds her own mouth. Solas groans, and his hands grabs her hips and her ass. She doesn’t care he was told to keep his hands off, she likes them where they are.

Ellana leans forward and bites her ear. She can’t help the yelp, and then Solas fingers trace the inside of her thighs and her entire body shudders. Every touch sends lightning along her skin. She pulls Ellana to her, kissing her, reaching and feeling her soft breasts, caressing a dusky nipple.

“Sit up,” she whispers to Ellana, and Ellana does. Iwyn kisses her stomach, and licks Solas cock again, as it pulses with need, but Ellana’s skin is so tantalizing. She raises herself to her knees, and leaves kisses up Ellana’s torso. She pulls Ellana closer, or maybe the other woman moves herself, until her cunt is aligned with Solas cock. Ellana grinds against it, and Iwyn stops and stares at how good it looks, while Solas moans behind her.

Iwyn soon returns her attention to Ellana, kissing her collarbones, her breasts and erect nipples. She sucks one into her mouth, causing Ellana to moan. Ellana slides one hand behind Iwyn’s nape and buries it in her hair. Solas fingers strokes her cunt, slipping a finger between her folds. There are so many sensations, so much to touch, and her need, her desire, everything, is multiplied.

She rocks back against Solas, willing him to touch her clit, but his fingers disappear to grip her hip when Ellana lets out a deep “Fuck, yes!” She looks and Ellana has brought herself down on his cock.

“Ellana. Please. Iwyn.” Solas groans and his fingers are back, teasing her. She rocks back against him, spreading her legs.

“Iwyn – I want...” Solas moans, and Ellana moves, slowly, while grinning at her. She reaches up and kisses her again, but when she moves Solas clever fingers don’t follow. She has both hands on his hips, and she almost tips into Ellana, until she leans back again, letting go of Ellana’s lips. Solas’ hands don’t return to where she wants them, though, he simply runs them up her legs. She can feel him tense beneath her, and she uses her hands to keep him still, so Ellana can set the pace.

Iwyn turns and looks at Solas. She wants to tell him to touch her again, and she wants to see his face when Ellana rides him. He looks beautiful, his pupils blown and his pink lips parted, his cheeks and chest is flushed. He tries to move into Ellana, but he can’t get leverage, not with his hands still stroking her legs, not with her hands on him.

He sees her, looks into her eyes with a burning need.

“Iwyn, please. I want… I want to taste you. Please.”

She doesn’t understand at first, but he licks his lips and tries to pull her towards him, and she gets it. She scrambles backwards awkwardly, until her knees are above his shoulders and her thighs on either side of his face. Her cunt is hovering over his lips, and she isn’t sure what he expects her to do next.

“Please, Iwyn – can I?”

His hands are resting on her hips, but they are not moving her. They are there as question, not a demand.

Her answer is yes, and she lowers herself to his face. As soon as she moves, his hands help her, and keeps pulling her down. She worries she will smother him, but she forgets when he traces his tongue along the inside of her folds. He doesn’t stop there, and he flicks and sucks and does something akin to magic, making her tremble and moan. Maybe it is magic, who knows. She doesn’t care, as long as he keeps doing it.

Her only regret is that Ellana is out of reach, but she can watch her, when she smiles wickedly and flexes her legs and moves in little shallow bounces and Solas moans somewhere beneath her, and then his tongue returns with double fervor.

The only thing keeping her upright is Solas’ hands, his long fingers wrapped around her hips. She grinds against his face, jerking against him as he alternately sucks and licks, his tongue thrusting in her, then the flat of it against her clit. Her orgasm builds, pleasure rippling through her in waves and waves until it burst, and she screams her release into the room.

Iwyn slumps forward and rolls off Solas. Her body is sated, and her mind is mellow. She turns herself so she can easily watch Ellana and Solas. Solas has moved his hands to Ellana’s hips, circling and caressing. His focus is on her now, his eyes and his body following her movements as she picks up the pace. Iwyn’s wall clench when she notices her slick on his chin; he has not bothered to wipe it away.

His hands slide down Ellana’s thighs, and around to where they are joined. He finds the right spot, given how Ellana whimpers and shudders. She looks beautiful. Iwyn considers touching them, but their movements are so perfect, so erotic, she is content to watch.

“Like that, more,” Ellana demands, and Solas must have complied, because Ellana moans, and jerks and slumps forward to kiss Solas’ chest. He moves faster, hands at her hips, his head thrown back and his heels digging into the bed, then he shouts hoarsely.

Iwyn has to touch them now, and she crawls closer, as Solas and Ellana kiss, then she kisses them both, messy and happy.

“I’m sticky,” Ellana says.

Iwyn laughs and Solas hums. His hands are slowly roaming over them both, his eyes half closed.

Iwyn doesn’t want to leave her bed, not yet, and she turns to Ellana and kisses her belly, just below her bellybutton

“May I?” she asks, moving lower, kissing the wiry curls above Ellana’s sex, looking up through her lashes to find Ellana looking slightly breathless, eyes wide. It is a good look on her, Iwyn thinks.

Ellana nods, and Iwyn moves lower. She gently, carefully licks Ellana’s sensitive folds, avoiding her clit. Ellana groans, and she licks lower, the taste of them both exploding in her mouth, salty and musky. Both of them, right here, with her and on her tongue, and she moans with the sheer eroticism of it. She never thought she’d do something like this, but it’s perfect.

Ellana whimpers when she flicks her tongue over her clit, so she does it again. Ellana’s clit is already swollen so she is gentle, but she doesn’t stop. It is too enticing to keep going, to increase the pressure slightly, to suck.

“Fuck, Iwyn – more,” Ellana swears, and rocks into Iwyn. Ellana’s reaction is encouraging in the best way, beautiful and enticing. Iwyn doubles her efforts.

She can hear Solas move, and then he is close, his body next to both of them, his hand roaming over them both. She moans into Ellana when his fingers trace her spine, all the way down between her legs.

They are all pressed together, so close, and Solas’ fingers enter her, and she sucks and Ellana curses again, and she doesn’t know where any of them begins or ends. All she knows is pleasure, and Ellana’s sweetness flooding her as she comes, and Solas thumb presses against her clit and it’s perfect, so perfect and this time her orgasm is quick and quiet and surprising.

“This was fun,” Iwyn says, and puts her head on Ellana’s thigh and yawns.

“Worn out?” Solas asks, a pleased grin on his face.

“Mmm very,” Ellana says with a slur.

Iwyn finds her comforter and pulls it across all of them. They share a few quiet kisses, their bodies entwined here in her bed.

Together, they slowly drift asleep.

#solavellan #solavellan fanfiction #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age fanfic #modern au #Iwyn lavellan #Ellana I wasn't asking Lavellan #Ellana Lavellan #Solas #Iwyn x Ellana x Solas #ot3 #together #thank you gala and ellster for a bit of micro betaing #thank you secret smut discord for help advice and encouragement #and everyone always for being supportive <3 #viking writes #published 2/19/2019

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vir-tanadahl · 1 month ago

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Chapter 16: In the Shadow of the Dread Wolf

[Ch1][Ch2][Ch3][Ch4][Ch5][Ch6][Ch7][Ch8]

[Ch9][Ch10][Ch11] [Ch12][Ch13] [Ch14] [Ch15] [Ch16]

Three times, they ventured through the eluvian from the Winter Palace, each journey drawing them deeper into a forgotten past. Each time, Isera uncovered another codex, each one slipping quietly into her possession. She never told the others. The voices from the Well of Sorrows whispered incessantly, urging her to wait, to keep the knowledge secret until the time was right.

Their most recent journey led them underground, to the ruins of an ancient elven library. This place was harder for Isera to leave. The library had once thrived, interwoven with the Fade itself, a wellspring of elven history now in shambles. So much knowledge had been lost here, and the weight of it pressed on her chest. Her heart ached as she wandered through the dusty shelves, running her fingers over the spines of forgotten tomes.

In true form, she couldn’t resist—her hands moved quickly, gathering as many of the ancient books as she could carry. Old habits. She had spent years collecting from places of knowledge, whether it be for her own survival or personal gain. This felt different, though. This was not just for her.

"We must find the past to protect the future. Only then will we grow," her mother's voice echoed faintly in her mind, a haunting reminder of the legacy she was meant to uphold.

Banreas forces a smile through the pain, his mark glowing faintly even though he tries to hide it. He bends down, scooping Sora and Veira into his arms, kissing their heads as they babble excitedly. For a brief moment, the weight of his burden seems to lift.

“Uncle!” they squeal, wrapping their small arms around his neck. Their joy is a temporary relief, but his eyes quickly find Isera, who sits quietly, watching him. She can see it—the strain, the exhaustion in his movements. He can no longer pretend the mark isn’t worsening.

Isera’s hands tighten in her lap, magic swirling faintly at her fingertips, a reminder of the power she struggles to contain. She wasn’t Solas. Solas had been the one who could control the mark all those years ago, but now, with him gone, she was left to manage as best she could. But it wasn’t enough. She wasn’t enough.

The twins chatter happily as they play on the floor, unaware of the weight hanging in the air. Banreas rises slowly, his expression shifting back to something more serious as he approaches her.

“How bad?” she asks softly, her voice laced with concern.

Banreas waves a hand dismissively, though his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Arl Teagan and Cyril have been informed. They know what’s coming.” He pauses, glancing at the girls before lowering his voice. “It’s getting worse, Isera. We need to find a way—soon.”

Isera nods, her heart sinking. She looks back at her daughters, their laughter echoing through the room. The thought of them growing up without their uncle—it was too much to bear.

“We are about to go through again. We are close to stopping the qunari. Will you come?” Banreas asks, his eyes lingering on his nieces as they play together, their laughter a brief respite from the looming danger. Isera hesitates, her heart torn between her duty and the fear for her daughters’ safety. She watches them, so innocent and unaware of the threat lurking just beyond these walls.

She takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of the decision settle on her shoulders. “They are safe here,” she says, more to convince herself than anything. “I will come.” She stands, her movements stiff with the pain of leaving them behind. It feels like a betrayal, but she knows she can’t turn away from the fight. Not now.

Isera turns to the elven servant, her voice softer. “Perhaps the girls need more friends to play with while I’m away?” she offers, hoping to ease some of the guilt gnawing at her.

The servant looks up, a kind smile on her face. “Of course, my Lady. I will send for our favorites. They always seem to brighten the little ones’ spirits.”

Isera smiles faintly in return, though her heart remains heavy. She kneels down, pulling Sora and Veira into her arms, holding them tightly for a moment. “Be good, my loves,” she whispers, kissing their foreheads. The girls giggle, unaware of the storm brewing around them.

She pulls them closer, their small bodies warm and comforting against her. “Maeme will be back soon,” Isera whispers softly, her lips brushing against their foreheads as she leans in for a final kiss. The twins, too young to understand the weight of her words, simply grin up at her with that innocent, unburdened joy that only children possess. They quickly turn, chasing after the nugs with squeals of delight.

Isera inhales deeply, forcing herself to hold back the tears that sting at the corners of her eyes. The sound of their laughter echoes in the room, pulling at her heart as she steels herself for what lies ahead.

Nodding to herself, as if drawing strength from the moment, she turns and walks out of the room, leaving behind the soft giggles of her daughters that now feel like the most precious sound in the world.

---

Isera grips the edge of the tower for balance, her vision blurring as she stares at the mural before her. The image of Fen’harel, with the note tacked beside it, sends a sharp chill through her.

… believed to be a self-portrait of Fen’harel.

The words echo in her mind like a cruel whisper. She shakes her head in disbelief, her heart pounding beneath the layers of her armor.

"No..." she breathes, her voice trembling. Everything begins to fall into place—the codices she had uncovered, the cryptic words, the endless nights spent replaying their time together in her mind. It’s as if a veil has been lifted, and the truth is suffocating.

Her hand instinctively reaches up, trembling as she presses it against her chest where the jawbone necklace Solas once wore rests beneath her armor. He feels closer than he has in years, as if his presence is lingering around her, haunting her. The realization twists in her stomach, making her feel as though the ground beneath her feet is crumbling away.

"Is?" Banreas' voice cuts through the fog in her mind, calling from below. "Did you find anything?"

Isera quickly pulls her hand away from the necklace, forcing herself to remain steady. She shakes her head, swallowing the panic that threatens to rise. "No, sorry." The lie slips out smoothly, though her voice is tight. "There’s nothing else here. Let’s move further."

She casts one last glance at the mural, her chest aching, her head spinning with the weight of the truth she now carries alone. The voices within her confirm what she already fears, but she can’t—won’t—tell Banreas. Not yet. Her heart, once full of warmth at the thought of him, now feels heavy with the unbearable knowledge of who Solas truly is.

---

Isera’s heart pounds in her chest, each beat a reminder of how little time they have. The chaotic energy of the mark ripples through Banreas, sending violent discharges of raw magic into the air. She barely manages to shield them both, the strain of maintaining her barriers evident in her trembling arms. The Saarebas, wild with Dragon’s Breath, roars in agony, but she knows the only way to end this is through the Fade itself.

"Banreas, I’m sorry," Isera mutters, her voice tight with desperation as she rushes behind him. His body is heavy, weakened by the unstable mark. She catches his weight, her hand gripping his tightly as she channels her own magic into the mark, her connection to the Fade pulsing between them.

The Fade tears open at her command, a gaping maw of swirling, shimmering energy. The Saarebas howls one last time before being consumed, its form unraveling as it is swallowed by the ethereal void. But the victory is short-lived. Isera’s skin burns as the magic surges uncontrollably through her and Banreas, the mark feeding off their very life force.

She gasps, feeling the scorching pain of magic scorching her palm, but she pushes through it, her focus solely on her brother. Banreas collapses, his body limp in her arms as the mark continues to drain him. His eyes, half-lidded and dazed, meet hers with confusion and exhaustion.

“We have to go,” she commands, her voice breaking as she hoists him up, forcing him to his feet despite her own fatigue. "We have to save him!" Her plea is raw, a mixture of determination and fear, the fire in her voice unwavering even as her body protests.

Isera isn’t sure if her desperate plea is meant for her brother, lying weak in her arms, or for Solas—the one who had vanished from her life but never from her thoughts. The guilt gnaws at her, twisting like a knife in her gut. It’s as if, in trying to save Banreas from the mark that threatens to consume him, she is also reaching for the ghost of a man who left her behind.

The shame settles like a weight on her chest, each step she takes dragging her down, as if the truth she’s been avoiding is finally breaking free. The echoes of her own guilt and the compulsion of the voices blur together, leaving her unsure of where her duty to her brother ends and her unresolved pain over Solas begins.

Banreas stumbles, leaning heavily against her, his strength nearly gone. His eyes flutter, trying to focus, but the pain and exhaustion are overwhelming him. Still, Isera refuses to let him fall. ‘Not here. Not like this.’ She won’t lose him—not to the mark, not to the Fade, not today.

“Isera…” Banreas groans, his legs barely holding him as she pulls him along. He’s a dead weight, and she’s fighting her own exhaustion, feeling every pulse of the mark as it surges with unstable energy. They stumble through the eluvian, the mirror sealing behind them with a shimmer of magic.

"Please..." Isera whispers, desperation lacing her voice as she drags him up the hill. Each step is heavier than the last, her limbs screaming in protest. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, but something stronger than exhaustion drives her forward. Solas. She can hear him, his voice clear in her mind, beckoning her, taunting her.

Banreas stumbles beside her, the glow from his mark flaring out of control. He’s barely conscious now, muttering incoherently as his legs give way. Isera catches him, but it’s like trying to hold back a storm with a flimsy shield. The mark—it’s going to kill him.’ She can feel it, the wild magic sparking in his veins, surging dangerously toward release.

She forces herself onward, her eyes locked on Solas. He stands on the ridge, impassive, not even turning as he turns the Viddasala into stone with a mere flick of his hand. Cold. Detached. As if all of this—the destruction, the chaos, even her—meant nothing.

“Ban!” Isera gasps as her brother finally collapses, the mark on his hand blazing with uncontrollable energy. ‘Solas, help him!’ The thought burns in her mind, but she can’t say it aloud. Not after everything. She grits her teeth, trying once again to rein in the power coursing through Banreas’s arm, her own hand trembling from the strain. The magic sears through her, hot and painful, but she refuses to let go.

Solas turns, walking toward them with calm purpose, his expression unreadable. With a simple clench of his fist, the mark stops sparking, the violent magic dissipating into nothing. Isera clutches her brother as he passes out, his body finally giving in to exhaustion and pain. Her heart pounds in her chest, torn between fear and overwhelming relief.

Solas kneels beside her, his presence strangely soothing yet haunting. "He will wake in a few minutes," he says softly, his voice steady. His gaze meets hers, and a gentle smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "I suspect you have questions."

Isera grips Banreas tighter, the weight of everything crashing down on her. “I know…” she whispers, her eyes locked onto his. Her voice is firm, but her body betrays her, trembling. "You are Fen’harel. You are the Dread Wolf."

His eyebrows lift slightly in surprise, though a trace of sadness lingers in his eyes. "Well done." He smiles, but there is no joy in it. Only regret. “I was Solas first. Fen’harel came later—an insult, a name I took as a badge of pride. The Dread Wolf inspired hope in my friends and fear in my enemies." He chuckles lightly, but it’s a hollow sound. "Not unlike the Inquisitor, I suppose." He glances down at Banreas, as if seeing another piece of himself in Isera's brother.

Tears brim in Isera's eyes, her voice breaking as she speaks. "The Dalish…they were wrong. The tales of you—they’re all wrong. Solas, you are a hero."

Solas looks at her, and the pain that flashes across his face is undeniable. His features soften, and for a moment, he looks far older than he ever did before. "Those are fragments," he says quietly, his voice tinged with sorrow. "Fragments to give me more credit than I ever deserved."

Isera tries to suppress the crushing sense of betrayal swelling in her chest. “If you had just told me…” she whispers, her voice trembling with pain. Yet, deep down, she knows the truth—if Solas had revealed his identity earlier, she isn’t sure how she would have reacted. Would she have believed him? Could she have accepted it?

Solas lowers his head, sorrow etched across his face. “Then you would carry the same burden I do,” he replies, his voice soft but heavy with regret.

“I want to… ma ghilana, vhenan,” Isera cries, her fingers gripping tightly around his wrist. Her heart aches, and in a fleeting moment, images of their children flash before her eyes—Sora and Viera, the life they could have had together. She refuses to release her hold on his gauntlet.

Solas meets her gaze, his own eyes filled with an impossible sadness. “I wish it could be, vhenan,” he whispers, his free hand covering hers, the weight of his words like a dagger in her heart.

Banreas stirs in her lap, groaning as he regains consciousness. Still dazed, he slowly rises to his knees, glancing down at the now-stabilized mark on his hand. "What happened?" he asks, his voice groggy and confused.

Isera takes a deep breath, her hand slipping away from Solas as she links it with her brother’s, grounding herself. “Solas is the Dread Wolf, brother,” she whispers, blinking back the tears that threaten to fall. The truth sits heavy between them all, like the final stroke in a tale far too long in the making.

Banreas blinks in confusion, his gaze shifting between Solas and Isera, trying to make sense of it all. Solas confirms what Isera had told him, recounting his role in their world’s undoing. He explains how he created the Veil, locking away the false gods, and how in doing so, he had unwittingly destroyed the very essence of the elves he sought to protect. His new goal, he reveals, is to remove the Veil and return the world to what it once was.

Solas stands, stepping away from them, his back turned as if distancing himself from the weight of his own admission.

Banreas, still kneeling beside Isera, wipes dirt from his hands with a sharp exhale. His expression shifts, exhaustion mingling with an incredulous irritation and exhaustion. His brow arches as he mutters sarcastically, “Of course, you had children with Fen’harel. Why wouldn’t you?”

The dryness in his tone is matched by a sharp side-eye toward Isera, as if the entire situation is too absurd to be real, too overwhelming to even process properly. His biting remark lingers in the air, cutting through the tension with a mix of disbelief and bitterness.

Before he can say another word, Isera lets out a shriek and instinctively smacks him on the back of the head. Banreas rubs the back of his head, muttering a curse under his breath as he steps away from Isera, still not fully believing the absurdity of the situation.

Solas spins around, yet remains rooted in place, his eyes locked on Isera, wide with a flurry of emotions that she can barely register—shock, fear, concern… and something else she can’t quite place. His usually composed expression crumbles in an instant. “What?” he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. “Children?” Solas breathes out, his voice cracking slightly, as if the word itself was something too fragile to exist. His expression is a whirlwind of disbelief and, to Isera's surprise, something close to joy.

Isera’s heart pounds in her chest, the steady rhythm of her pulse deafening in her ears. This moment—this impossible, sudden moment—had never been part of her plan. She had fantasized about telling him, about how it might unfold, but nothing in her imagination could have prepared her for this.

Her eyes are wide, still locked on Solas. He stands frozen, shock and confusion written on his face, his earlier calm unraveling with each passing second. She can see the emotions warring behind his eyes—fear, concern, happiness—all tangled in a web of uncertainty.

Isera opens her mouth to speak but no sound comes out at first. The weight of the revelation is almost too much. Finally, she forces the words past her lips, her voice barely a whisper, “Y-yes… children.”

Solas blinks, staring at her in disbelief. “Children?” His voice trembles, as if even uttering the word threatens to break whatever fragile control he has left.

Isera swallows hard, her throat tight with emotion. “I… I tried to find you… to tell you.” Her words waver as she pushes herself to her feet, body trembling with anxiety and fear. Every movement feels like a monumental effort. She takes a shaky breath. “But I couldn’t reach you.” Isera whispers, her voice cracking under the strain. The truth had clawed at her for years, and now it hung in the air between them, fragile yet undeniable. She feels exposed, her vulnerability laid bare as she stands before him, every inch of her shaking. Solas doesn’t speak, but the look in his eyes says more than words ever could.

For the first time in what feels like ages, Solas is speechless, eyes locked onto her as if struggling to comprehend the gravity of what she’s just revealed. Solas doesn’t move. He simply stares at her in silence, absorbing the revelation, but she can see the depth of his turmoil—the battle between his longing and the weight of his mission.

The mirror behind Solas ripples, and Isera's eyes narrow in suspicion as a figure steps out from the swirling magic. She cranes her head to look past Solas, heart pounding in sudden alarm. ‘Is this his plan?’ she wonders, dread pooling in her gut. ‘Has he brought reinforcements to kill us?’

The figure saunters forward with a graceful, deliberate ease, their voice breaking through Isera’s thoughts, soft and lilting. “It has been too long since I have seen you both.” Isera’s breath catches in her throat. The voice… it’s too familiar, too impossible. She stares into the glowing blue-golden eyes of the figure approaching them, disbelief washing over her like a wave.

“Mother?” Banreas's voice breaks the silence, full of disbelief as he looks at the woman who steps forward, her presence commanding and ethereal. Eludysia smiles, and the warmth in her expression is unmistakable. “Hello, my son.” She halts a few steps before Solas, her eyes flickering with recognition as if no time had passed.

Isera feels her stomach churn. The woman before her is not the mother she left in Rivain, the small, wise healer hunched over ancient tomes, her hands worn from decades of grinding herbs. That woman had been frail, her curly, gray-streaked hair framing a face marked by time and study. She had once joked that the silver strands in her hair were threads of wisdom earned from years of learning.

But this woman—this version of Eludysia—was different. She stood tall, proud, with a statuesque frame. Her dark, curly hair, now free of gray, cascaded down her back, long and vibrant. Her blue-golden eyes shimmered with ancient knowledge, glinting with an otherworldly glee. Resting upon her brow was an ornate dragon’s skull, enchanted and powerful.

Solas steps aside, his head slightly bowed, his posture guarded as Eludysia approached. Confusion echoed in his usually composed gaze, a rare break in his carefully maintained stoicism. For once, even he did not have the answers.

“What…?” Solas mutters, echoing the bewilderment coursing through the moment. There was a chorus of confusion shared between him, Isera, and Banreas. None of them had expected this.

Eludysia, on the other hand, seemed to revel in the mystery of her presence. A satisfied smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she turned her gaze to Solas. "You have always been prideful, Dread Wolf. So arrogant that you did not even sense the old blood flowing through their veins," she teased, her voice laced with amusement, enjoying the rare moment where Solas was caught off guard.

Solas scowled, his brows knitting tightly. The tension in the air grew palpable, as if even the Fade held its breath, waiting for the truth to unravel.

Isera’s head shook in disbelief. “Old blood? You’re lying,” she snapped, her voice sharp with denial. “That’s not possible. I would remember. We would remember!” Her gaze darted to Banreas, still on his knees, weakened and equally stunned. His expression mirrored hers—confusion and uncertainty written across his face.

Eludysia sighed, her smile fading as she looked at Isera with something akin to regret. “You were five when the Veil began tearing our world apart,” she began softly. “I did what I had to, took us into a deep slumber as the Veil was torn. Your memory is fragmented, like broken shards of a mirror.”

Isera shakes her head vehemently, refusing to accept the implications of her mother’s words. “If what you’re saying is true, then Banreas would be a mage, and we would be immortal,” she counters, her voice laced with desperation, clinging to logic as though it were the last anchor holding her reality together.

Eludysia frowns, her expression softening with a sadness that runs deep. “You are immortal, Isera. You’ve always been connected to the Fade. That connection remains, though part of your power is locked behind the Veil,” she explains, her voice a gentle rebuke against Isera's denial. Then, a thoughtful hum escapes her lips. “It would have been better if you had borne the mark. It was never meant for a mortal…” Her gaze shifts to Banreas, who is still kneeling, worn and struggling under the weight of the revelations.

Turning to him, Eludysia’s voice wavers, guilt evident in her tone. “Your lack of magical ability and immortality is my fault, my son.” Her words are heavy with regret. “Banreas, you were not blessed with the same gift as your sister. When the Veil was tearing the world apart, I was injured and dying. I did not have the strength, the energy to protect us all during our slumber… I failed you,” she confesses, her voice breaking, pain seeping into each word. “I’m sorry.”

Isera’s heart pounded, a distant pain flickering in the edges of her mind, memories just out of reach. “A slumber?” she whispered, her voice shaky, as if testing the words. Her mind raced with questions, with possibilities she couldn’t quite grasp.

The tension in the air grows thick as Eludysia’s sorrowful gaze turns to Solas, her regret transforming into a sharp glare. “Did you not tell her of the ability she possesses? Or were you too blind to make that connection yourself?” Her words are a biting accusation, her tone sharp and filled with reproach as she directs her ire at the Dread Wolf.

Solas’s eyes darkened, unreadable emotions swirling beneath his calm facade, but his silence spoke volumes. Whatever Eludysia had revealed had shaken even him. Solas’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t immediately respond. He meets her glare, though his eyes betray the burden of knowledge he carries.

Solas pulls back slightly, his gaze narrowing with interest as he processes Eludysia’s words. “She’s an i've'an'amelan? A protector of the Fade?” The disbelief in his voice is palpable, his expression a mixture of surprise and incredulity. “That is impossible. They... didn’t survive. I determined that the separation between the two worlds caused their minds to collapse. They were more intrinsically connected to the Fade than almost any other.”

Eludysia shrugs dismissively, her glare unwavering. “Those who entered uthenera survived, Dread Wolf.” Her tone is sharp, tinged with a scorn that hasn’t faded with time. “Isera is untrained, yes, but the blood of protectors flows through her veins. Their father was the best of them, and he died trying to stop the horror you caused.” Her words slice through the air, dripping with resentment as she continues to glare at him, the bitterness of old wounds resurfacing.

“If only you had waited—asked for help…” She shakes her head, her voice laden with a sorrow that has never healed. The memory of the past seems to grip her tightly, and for a moment, there is a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes. “You might not have torn everything apart.”

Solas bows his head under the weight of her accusation, his expression betraying the guilt he still carries. The memory stirs something deep within him, a regret that has lingered for millennia, now brought to the forefront by Eludysia's words.

Eludysia looks around, her expression calming as she regains her composure. “I predicted we would need as many i've'an'amelan as possible when we awoke to restore what was lost,” she continues, her voice more measured now. She glances at Solas before focusing on Isera. “Surely, your memories have been returning since you began wearing the circlet?”

Isera’s fingers instinctively reach for the circlet resting on her head. “How do you know about that?” she demands, a knot of distrust tightening in her chest. She’s not ready to believe what she’s hearing—this revelation about her bloodline, her past, her mother’s role in it all.

Eludysia’s laughter breaks the tension, a knowing sound that only makes Isera more uneasy. Her hands rest confidently on her hips, head cocked to one side as she regards her daughter. “Child, how do you think the Inquisition agents found it in the first place?” She shakes her head, bemused. “It was mine. I am a high priestess of Mythal.” The weight of her words presses down on Isera, the reality of what her mother is saying sinking in deeper.

Isera blinks, her mind reeling as she covers her face with her hands. Everything feels too overwhelming—the father of her children is Fen’harel, her mother a high priestess of Mythal, and they are not just elves, but elvhen—one of the ancients. It’s too much, and the weight of these revelations presses down on her like a suffocating fog.

Eludysia, with a serene smile, turns away from Solas and approaches Isera’s children, her arms open wide. “Children, I want you to come with us,” she says warmly, her voice filled with a strange, eerie calm. “You are one of us. You need to help.”

Isera notices Solas stiffen, his eyes narrowing into slits. Though he says nothing, his silent fury is palpable, his body taut as if ready to strike. The tension in the air thickens as Eludysia continues, oblivious—or perhaps uncaring—of Solas’s reaction.

Banreas lets out a sudden, boisterous laugh, a mix of disbelief and pain. “I am not one of you,” he declares, his voice weak but defiant. “This is my world. There are other ways to restore what was lost, but not… not that.” His words are gritted through clenched teeth, and Isera can see the mark on his hand throbbing more violently. Time is running out for him.

Isera lowers her hands and shakes her head firmly, but her emotions churn in a storm of guilt, regret, and desire. Torn between the pull of her past—her love for Solas, the revelations of her heritage, and the call to join her mother—and the fierce bond she has with her daughters, she feels herself fracturing.

Her voice is steady, but the weight of her inner conflict is clear. “Your plan to restore your world could kill my daughters—and I will not leave my children.” The words leave her lips with a determined finality, though inside, the turmoil rages. She cannot deny that had she not borne her daughters, the path before her would be different. Without them, she would follow her mother into this ancient cause, or chase after Solas, the Dread Wolf, to the ends of Thedas. But now, with her daughters, she feels an inescapable tether to this life—a bond stronger than any temptation from the past.

Eludysia frowns, her eyebrows raising in surprise, unaware of the recent offspring. “You...had children?” Her voice carries a hint of confusion and hurt. The realization washes over her as she sighs, nodding in understanding, though the glimmer of disappointment in her eyes betrays her emotions. It is clear this revelation shifts her perspective, a complication she hadn't anticipated.

Solas exhales sharply, cutting through the moment with a tone of urgency. “This is my burden,” he declares with resolve, his gaze hardening. “You should be concerned about your Inquisition. You halted the Qunari forces, but their perception of your involvement is...complicated.” He pauses, eyes narrowing as he explains the fallout. “The Qunari believed the Inquisition was working for me. With luck, you may have a few years of peace before the consequences of that assumption catch up with you.” His words carry the weight of the conflict still to come, a reminder that while they may have slowed the Qunari, the storm is far from over.

Solas’s words slice through the air, heavy with both revelation and consequence. "Do you want to know how I uncovered the Qunari plot? The one I disrupted by leading them to your doorstep?" His gaze sharpens as he continues. "My spies in the Inquisition tripped over their spies. The elven guard who intercepted the servant carrying the Gatlok barrel? Mine."

Banreas, visibly frustrated and struggling with the weight of the situation, speaks up with impatience lacing his voice, “And now you control all of the eluvian?”

Solas nods, his expression unreadable. “Yes. Do you remember Briala from Halamshiral? She controlled them for a time, but only partially. The Qunari stumbled upon this network independently.”

Isera stands frozen, her heart pounding as she watches Solas kneel beside her brother, his expression a mask of dread. She recalls the offer from Briala regarding the elven fortress in the Dales. The memory of the proposal, once burdened with political weight, now fills her with an unexpected sense of relief. The fortress had been a gamble, a risk laden with uncertainty, but in this moment, she is grateful she accepted it.

Banreas winces, the mark on his arm glowing dangerously, sending erratic bolts of magic spiraling upward. He grunts, his body dragged helplessly by the surging power of the anchor, which pulses and burns like a living thing.

"And this anchor?" Banreas grits through his teeth, raising his trembling arm. "It's getting worse." Solas’s face hardens, shadows of guilt and sorrow crossing his features. “I know, my friend,” he whispers, his voice low, full of pain. “And we are running out of time.”

The magic surges again, a burst of chaotic energy shooting from the mark, forcing Banreas to the ground with a groan. Solas reaches down, his hand hovering over the mark, but it’s clear even his ancient knowledge and power are strained by the destructive force at play.

“The mark was never meant for a mortal,” Solas murmurs, his voice weighed with regret. “It will eventually kill you. Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you… at least for now.”

Isera feels her throat tighten, her hands clenching at her sides as she watches the scene unfold, helpless. Solas’s words echo in her mind: ‘save you... at least for now’. The reality of what they were up against was becoming clearer with every flare of the mark, and every moment, the truth solidified—there was no escaping what Solas had set into motion.

“Solas, var lath ver suledin, ma vhenan!” Isera pleads, her voice trembling as she rushes toward him, latching onto his arm. Her desperation is palpable, clinging to the hope that her words might somehow sway him. Solas looks down at her, his face etched with pain and sorrow, but he remains silent, burdened by the weight of his decision.

Banreas cries out again, the mark flaring violently as his body convulses. The destructive magic surges through him, threatening to consume what is left. Solas’s eyes glow with ancient power, and the mark begins to fade, piece by piece, as the magic is reabsorbed into the Fade. Banreas’ hand slowly vanishes, dissolving into nothingness, leaving only the scars of the battle he never asked for.

Solas steps closer to Isera, his hand trembling as he gently brushes a strand of hair away from her tear-streaked face. “Ma vhenan...”he whispers, his voice barely audible, laden with sorrow. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to her lips, a fleeting moment of tenderness amid the chaos. “Ar ame ir abelas” he breathes, his forehead resting against hers as her silent sobs escape. I am so sorry.

Isera clings to him, her heart breaking as she fights to hold onto the moment, but Solas gently pulls away. She resists, her fingers tightening around his arm, refusing to let go. “Vya isalan na,” she whispers through her tears, her voice cracking with the weight of her grief. They need you.

Solas hesitates, his gaze filled with regret and an unbearable sadness. He gives her one last sorrowful look, full of everything he cannot say, before turning away. He still doesn’t answer, leaving Isera standing there, alone with her pain, as he walks into the shadows of the Fade.

Isera reluctantly lets go of his arm, her fingers brushing the fabric as he walks away, never turning back. His posture is rigid, shoulders squared as he stands by the eluvian, waiting for Eludysia to join him.

Eludysia pauses, turning to face her children with a serene smile, her palms open in a gesture of warmth. "I am proud of you both. You’ve done the People proud," she says softly before stepping toward Solas.

Isera watches them disappear into the shimmering surface of the mirror. Her heart wrenches as the eluvian fades to gray, the magic dissolving until it is nothing but a mirror and stone once more. She fights the overwhelming urge to chase after them, feeling as though a part of her has followed them through the eluvian.

---

Banreas brought the Inquisition to an end that night with a bold, decisive act. He let the heavy tome—symbolic of their authority—fall to the floor with a resounding thud that echoed through the chamber. The weight of the gesture was impossible to ignore, causing an immediate ripple of shock among the gathered nobility. Gasps and murmurs filled the air as the room stirred in disbelief, eyes following Banreas as he turned and strode out without a word, leaving a trail of confusion and uncertainty in his wake.

However, Banreas was certain of one thing—his decision to disband the Inquisition was a calculated effort to keep corruption at bay. The organization had grown too large, too entangled in the political webs of Orlais and Ferelden. By scaling it down, he could prevent the rot from spreading further. But there was another, more personal reason behind his choice. Hidden beneath the official rhetoric, Banreas harbored a quiet resolve: a smaller, more focused group could be better equipped to stop Solas before his plans came to fruition.

Isera swiftly maneuvers through the sea of murmuring nobles following the abrupted announcement, her eyes locking on Briala, who stands apart from the chaos with a watchful, detached gaze. As Isera approaches, Briala’s brows rise in mild surprise, but a knowing glint lights her eyes.

“We must meet, sooner than expected,” Isera says, her voice low but firm, glancing briefly over her shoulder at the unfolding commotion.

Briala's lips curve into a subtle smile, one of understanding and anticipation. “Indeed,” she responds softly, her tone laced with the unspoken intricacies of their shared plans. Without further words, Briala nods and turns gracefully, slipping away from the court like a shadow, leaving Isera to linger a moment longer before following suit.

---

The Inquisition members returned to Skyhold under the cover of night, and despite their late arrival, the downsizing began almost immediately. The halls that once echoed with purpose were now eerily quiet, as if the heart of the Inquisition had already begun to fade.

Isera cradled Sora against her chest, the child's soft breathing a comfort in the stillness. Veira, however, remained wide awake, her little hands gripping at her mother’s tunic as they made their way back to the clinic. Exhaustion pulled at Isera’s every step, her body heavy with the weight of the past few days. Upon reaching the clinic, she sighed deeply, locking the door behind her for a moment of reprieve.

The clinic, so familiar and usually safe, now feels foreign. As she turned to head upstairs, something caught her eye—aged, unfamiliar books placed haphazardly on her potion desk. She had seen these kinds of tomes before—old, powerful, and dangerous. Isera froze, her heart skipping a beat. These weren’t hers, they weren’t the ones she brought back from the crossroads, nor were they anything she had ever seen within the Inquisition's collection. The leather spines, worn and cracked with age, whispered of secrets long hidden, and her pulse quickened with suspicion.

Her chest tightens as she ascends the stairs, gripping Veira's small hand. “Come, Veira,” she urged softly, guiding her daughter up the steps, a growing unease settling in her chest as memories of the eluvian resurfaced in her mind. She couldn’t shake the image of the eluvian in the prayer room from her mind. Solas had walked through one, gone in an instant. Could another threat have followed in his wake? Her heart pounds louder, as if to warn her of unseen dangers lurking.

"Come, Veira," she whispers again, her voice steady but her thoughts anything but calm. Every creak of the stairs feels like a signal of something watching. Isera glances back at the books one last time before hurrying her daughter into the upper room. Her eyes sweep the room. Nothing feels amiss up here, yet the air is heavy, thick with the kind of magic she has grown all too familiar with since her time with Solas.

"Vehnan..." Solas’s voice is a soft murmur that cuts through the quiet of the clinic. Isera freezes mid-step, her heart thundering in her chest. From her position on the stairs, she looks up at him—Solas, not Fen’harel, standing there in the simple clothes he used to wear. Gone was the imposing figure, glittering in the armor of legend. Here, before her, was the man she once knew, and he looked vulnerable, afraid, almost as uncertain as she felt.

His gaze drops to the floor, shame casting shadows across his features. His hands fidget at his sides, fingers twitching nervously as if unsure of their place. “I had to see them…” he whispers, barely lifting his eyes to meet hers. There’s a tremor in his voice, an uncertainty that he rarely allowed himself to show.

Isera doesn’t move. She feels the weight of a thousand possibilities swirling in her chest, each one more terrifying than the last. What if he tries to take them? What if he’s here to tear apart the fragile life she’s built? But she nods, swallowing the lump in her throat.

She doesn’t know what to do, and her fear matches his. She can see it in his posture, in the way he hesitates, as though he’s unsure if he’s even welcome here. For a moment, they stand in silence, caught between the past and the future, both uncertain of where to go from here.

Isera takes a deep, steadying breath, pushing down the tremor of fear and uncertainty that gnaws at her. Slowly, she crosses the room and kneels beside Solas, offering a small smile despite the tension. "Ahn mar melin?" Solas asks Veira gently, his eyes soft. What is your name.

Veira stares up at him, her chubby fingers wrapped around the hem of her mother’s cloak. She tilts her head, her young mind working to understand the unfamiliar words, before her lips part with a shy smile.

“Ma'melin Veira,” she says proudly, her voice small but full of confidence as she looks between her mother and Solas. Solas’s eyes light up with emotion, his expression tender. “Veira…” he repeats softly, as though trying the name out for the first time, his voice filled with reverence. He looks up at Isera, a hint of awe in his gaze, and nods slightly, his heart heavy with unspoken emotions.

Solas shifts, his posture softening as he kneels to meet Veira’s gaze. “Savhalla…”His voice is barely above a whisper, filled with awe and apprehension as he sees his daughter for the first time. Hello.

Veira's auburn hair is tousled, her shirt stained with remnants of treats from their long journey back to Skyhold. Isera hadn’t the time to tidy her up; everything had been a rush, an effort to escape the weight of the Winter Palace. Veira looks up at her mother with curious, wide eyes before pointing a small finger at Solas. “Na’ise babae.” Isera says softly. He is your father.

Solas’s breath catches in his throat, his eyes widening in surprise as he glances up at Isera, unsure of how to respond. He hesitates, his emotions tangling in the moment. Veira glances up at her mother, confusion and curiosity clouding her small face as she tries to understand the man now kneeling before her. She tugs on Isera’s sleeve, her wide eyes searching for reassurance.

“Babae?” Veira asks softly, her tiny voice questioning the presence of the man she’s just learned is her father.

Solas’s breath hitches, his heart caught in the moment. He can see the uncertainty in her eyes, the childlike need to understand. He looks to Isera, waiting for her to lead this fragile moment, unsure of how much he can claim this new role, if he can at all.

Isera’s throat tightens as she kneels beside Veira, brushing a stray lock of auburn hair from her daughter's face. “Vin, Veira, ma vhen'an,” Isera whispers, her voice warm and steady despite the heaviness in her chest. Yes, Veira, my heart.

“Na’ise babae.” He is your father.

Solas lowers his gaze for a moment, his heart weighed down by guilt and longing. When he looks up, he gently holds out his hand, the simple gesture filled with quiet hope. Veira hesitates, glancing between her mother and Solas again, before taking a small, uncertain step closer to him. She reaches out, her tiny fingers brushing against his hand, her touch delicate and curious.

Solas smiles, his eyes shimmering with emotion. "Babae," he repeats quietly, his voice almost breaking, as though the word itself carries the weight of worlds. For a brief second, the room feels smaller, the weight of what’s been lost and gained lingering in the air between them. Solas’s hand trembles slightly as he reaches out, still in disbelief, to gently touch Veira’s cheek.

Solas opens his arms, and without hesitation, Veira rushes into his embrace. Isera had spent countless nights telling her daughters stories of their father—the elven apostate who aided the Inquisition, the man who helped save their uncle, and the one who was so deeply passionate about the elven people and their history that he would one day share those tales with them himself.

Solas lifts Veira gently, his heart swelling as she begins to play with his cheeks, her small hands exploring his face as she babbles in her own language. A quiet chuckle escapes him, the innocence of the moment softening the sharp edges of his inner turmoil.

"And what is her name?" Solas asks, nodding toward Sora, who stands watching them with wide, curious eyes. His voice is hesitant, almost as though he's afraid to step closer, unsure of the boundaries after so long apart. But the pull is undeniable—his family is here, in this room.

Isera’s eyes glisten as she watches the scene unfold. She had prepared herself for many things, but not this—seeing Solas so vulnerable, so tender with their daughter. She turns to Sora, who has been quietly observing from her place, one hand clutching the hem of Isera's tunic.

“This is Sora,” Isera answers softly, giving the little girl a gentle nudge forward. “She’s a little more shy… but just as curious.” Sora, who had been fast asleep against her mother’s chest, had quietly awoken at some point during the interaction. Her wide, sleepy eyes blink up at Solas as she clutches her mother’s tunic with tiny fists, still groggy but alert. She peers at him with curiosity, her small brow furrowing slightly, as if trying to piece together the world she’s woken into.

Solas watches her with soft reverence, lowering himself slowly to her level. "Ma'vhenan," he whispers gently, his hand extending toward her in quiet invitation. His expression is a delicate mix of longing and tenderness, his eyes filled with an almost unbearable emotion.

Sora gazes at him, her tiny fingers inching closer toward his outstretched hand. There’s a moment of hesitation as she studies him, her innocence untangling the emotions she senses but can’t yet name. Finally, her small hand reaches forward, brushing against his, a fleeting but significant connection.

Solas smiles warmly, the bond slowly forming with both of his daughters, though a storm of emotions brews just beneath the surface—guilt, joy, and sorrow, all wrapped together. But in this moment, he lets himself feel only the love he had feared would never be his to experience.

Isera smiles, her voice soft and filled with love. “She’s like you. She likes to sleep a lot.” She jokes gently, trying to ease the weight of the moment. She turns and sits on the edge of the bed, motioning for him to join her with Veira still in his arms.

Solas hesitates for a moment, his eyes searching her face for permission before he steps forward and carefully sits beside her, Veira nestled in his lap. Isera glances at him, the warmth of the moment overshadowed by the ache she’s carried for so long.

“I tried to find you,” she whispers, her voice breaking with the rawness of emotion she’s held back for years. “To tell you. I would never keep them from you…” Tears stream down her face, each one carrying the weight of every moment she’d thought he was lost to her.

She never thought this day would come, never thought she would see him sitting beside her with their children. And now, here he is—finally—meeting them. Her heart feels painfully full, torn between the deep ache of missing him and the overwhelming love she still holds for him. She chokes back a sob, her chest tightening.

“I know, vhenan,” Solas whispers, tears finally spilling from his eyes as he holds Veira close. He wraps his free arm around Isera, pulling her into him. “I know.” His lips press a soft kiss against her temple before he leans his head against hers.

Isera closes her eyes, savoring the feeling of his warmth beside her, the familiar scent of him—musky, earthy, grounding—the gentle sound of his breathing filling the room. She breathes him in, a bittersweet comfort after so long apart.

“I won’t stop you from seeing them. Not even now,” she tells him, her voice steady with resolve. And she meant it. She grew up without knowing her father, and no matter how painful or complicated things were, she wants their daughters to know him, to feel his love.

They settle against the headboard, their sleeping children nestled between them as the moon casts a silver glow through the window. Solas moves carefully to lay Veira down, and Isera follows, placing Sora beside her sister. Both toddlers sleep soundly, unaware of the world’s weight that rests on their parents' shoulders.

Solas turns to Isera, reaching for her, his eyes filled with sorrow and longing. “I must go,” he says quietly, wrapping his arms around her once more. Isera can feel the tension in his body, the burden he carries pressing heavily on him.

She nods, wiping her tears against his sleeve, her heart heavy with the knowledge that he will leave again. “Be careful,” she whispers, her voice barely holding together. She wanted to beg, to plead for him to stay—to let go of the past and the burdens he carried. But she didn’t.

The words caught in her throat, swallowed by the weight of everything unspoken between them. She knew he couldn't, that asking him to stay would be asking him to give up who he was, and perhaps who he needed to be. The urge to hold onto him, to keep him close, burned within her, but she stifled it, knowing this wasn't the time. It never was.

Solas held her gaze for a moment longer, his hand still resting on hers, as if he too wanted to say something more, to offer a promise he could not keep. Instead, he only gave her a final, fleeting smile, bittersweet and full of regret.

He pauses, holding her hand tightly in his, his gaze softening as he looks at her. “For them... I will try,” he promises. Then, with a swift motion, Solas shifts into a small black bird with striking blue eyes and flies out of the window, disappearing into the night.

Isera stood at the window long after he had disappeared, her heart aching with the weight of all the words she hadn’t said, and the hope she clung to, no matter how fragile. For now, she will hold onto the moment they had, and the hope that he might return again, for her and their daughters.

What Isera did not realize was the profound effect she had on Solas, how her presence unknowingly shaped his every choice. Though he walked a path veiled in shadow, her light illuminated the way forward. The Dread Wolf, once lost in the darkness, now looked to the moon—his love—to guide him through the unknown. As the moon rises, the Dread Wolf’s path becomes clearer, illuminated by the very light he never anticipated possessing.

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tenderthings-archive · 6 years ago

Text

the long night (solas/f!lavellan, post-break up)

rating: T

word count: 3k

warnings: horror themes; blood & gore; angst without a happy ending; mild eye trauma (only to a baddie); idk don’t read this if you don’t want to feel sad???

a/n: i’m open to critiques on this piece, especially for the action & scary bits!!

summary:

During a mission gone wrong, Solas witnesses the first of the damage he’s caused and a change takes place within the Inquisitor.

“They are well past love now—he’d likely burn before she lets him touch her ever again.”

ao3 link: (x)

As night falls, a chill sinks down Solas’ spine. What had been a simple reconnaissance twists into a fight for survival. An unnatural silence renders them mute; wildlife all but fades away. The forest canopy devours the moons and stars. Within an hour, they were virtually blind. Well-hidden, yes, but if the enemy were to fall upon them again, he doubts they’d live to see daybreak.

Before the attack, all seemed well. They were making good time on their journey so the Inquisitor called for a rest.

One moment, she was talking to him for the first time in weeks. The next, she’s shoving him out of the path of a shadow made of crystal and warped flesh.

By the time he and the others lost sight of their attackers, they veered off any path they knew.

Lost in the midsts of the Graves, the thick brush was near impossible to navigate. They rely solely on high terrain, areas that have not seen creatures walk up-right in hundreds of years. Titan, willow-like trees provide cover, but Varric struggles. Injured, on top of ill-suited eyes and stature, his wheezing only gets worse by the hour. What aid Solas provides must be preserved to keep them moving—for within the long dark, what the humans call the witching hour comes to a head.

It begins with eyes in the shapes of leaves. Then, bodies made of shadow and air. The squelch of mud beneath their tired feet begins to look, sound, and smell wrong, vile. None say it but they all know the illusion to be gore, sinking up from the earth, discharge from a mass grave.

Ghosts begin to stir, vindicated.

Whispers gnaw at the Veil, threatening in sacrilegious tongues. You are not welcome here. Only Varric has the pleasure of being deaf to it as Cassandra quakes, snapping her head at every clear word. Victims, without mercy or forgiveness, hiss at her piety, her humanity. Solas understands everything and more but ignores their revenge, as if his own crusade was not in play.

The only one amongst them suited to the tension and terror was the Inquisitor. Fearless, Iona acts as their last vigil and keeps the ghosts of murdered elves at bay.

She leads the group into the shade of an ancient tree trunk, as wide and broad as the roof of a house. She signals them to stop while she scouts ahead.

Solas sees they’ve reached a dead end, a fallen tower overtaken by the forest.

When she reaches the ruin, Iona runs her hand along its mossy wall, thinking. Then, she steps back, crouches down, and presses her ear to the earth. What tremors she hears, she chooses not to communicate.

She stands up again and takes hold of a vine-rope. She tugs hard before gathering her strength and climbing up. They watch her ascend, taken aback by her prowess, movements appearing both practiced and unnatural, spidery and beautiful. She is quick but not quick enough; the night only gets darker and there is no way around but over. What’s worse is the tinge of strangeness in the air, unlike what they’ve been feeling for hours.

When she reaches the top, she comes to a squat, braced by her hand.

In the emerald night, where the light comes in fleeting, her eyes reflect back. Her ears twitch. She looks down at them, as if prey found by the black panthers that prowled these wilds a millennium ago.

Solas is the only one who can make out her intentions, using his equally keen eyes.

“Be ready,” he whispers to the others and nods at the Inquisitor. She glares at him, out of habit now.

Minutes pass. Then, slowly, the Inquisitor rolls up to her full height as the ugly clang of metal enters the ditch below.

Cassandra unsheathes her sword and moves close to Varric as he finds cover and readies his crossbow. Solas summons a barrier but keeps his footing light. They will be running soon.

The Veil threatens to tear once the barrage begins. He and Cassandra scale down the hill and enter combat, fighting blind and scared. The spirits chant; Solas can feel their joy at spilled holy blood when in reality, fear is their greatest ally—’til it is too late for even that.

Red lyrium sets the forest alight. Inhuman cries drag life back into the world as one abomination falls after another.

All four have fought red templars a hundred times since the order’s corruption, but never like this—never so close to their faces, their crystallized eyes and flaking skin. Dread overlaps adrenaline and it’s not long before the Graves smell like death once again.

Above, arrows and bolts fly. Solas catches flashes of a gleaming-eyed figure leaping from branch to branch, tree to tree, a sentinel like her ancestors but reinforced by a dwarf’s might. When she protects him, he heals her, balls of green magic in her wake. Soon, the templars grow wise to the sky and draw their attention to the hillside where Varric stayed.

They ascend, like vermin, and there is nothing Cassandra can do to stop the tide.

Varric pulls back but the ghosts draw in.

When Solas turns to run to the dwarf’s side, he is met with a pommel to the head.

In the Fade, he watches Iona hold his body until her arms grow heavy. She lowers him into the ground then leaves, tearfully.

Gradually, the world expands. The night ends. The ditch grows into a valley, a horde appears from the bush—elves, humans; banners, religion. The Exalted March.

He is amongst his kind but not, smashed between bodies but not. He feels every bone in his body break beneath a human’s boot. He drags an elf boy the same age as his daughter through the dirt and kills him, slow. He cries a mother’s tears as the Divine orders the execution of all prisoners of war. He pisses on the effigies left by the elders for their lost children. He is called knife-ear, defiler, heathen. He stands amongst a thousand soldiers, broken treaties, and the final horn of retreat that comes too late. All is lost; they’re put in chains.

Solas wakes from the vision only to find himself alone, confused, a scream and a lover’s name caught in his throat.

Minutes or perhaps hours have passed. The enemy has scattered, spread into the undergrowth like poison. The ghosts warn him so, speaking a dialect no elf was allowed to remember.

Likely concussed, Solas gets to his feet and gathers his bearings as best he can. He takes one dizzying step before realizing his staff is lost and he recognizes nothing—not even his own body. Ice floods his veins, his knees buckle, but he refuses to fall.

He’s come so far, he has so much left to do, a birthright to rebuild—

Solas hears something in the distance.

The spirits whisper go, then leave, and finally liar, as if they understood. They can’t.

He doesn’t weep for them but follows their command. He is no shem; they don’t want him to dead yet.

The voices lead him to an incline, where the forest is dense. He walks it as stealthily as his shaking body can. Thorns and branches cut up his face and clothes, but the forest pleads him to go on—go on, if you dare. Eventually, he comes upon a wide break in the canopy where a stream runs through and the ground is leveled. Twin moons have turned the water-flow into glittering crystals and the grass, a prussian blue. In the middle of the meadow, far from where Solas hides, three templars stand amongst dead others. They circle a fallen figure.

At first, he mistakes it for a wounded animal. But no, it is Iona, unarmed and head bowed. He can hear her desperate breathing.

Instincts thrust Solas forward, but shock catches him dead. She’s jumped to her feet, then charges, as if flying.

There is nothing beautiful about her this time.

Her teeth, like fangs, meet and sink into the neck of a templar. Lithe limb encase a gigantic body, locking tight. A ghoulish noise rings out, but she is swift and uses her enemy’s weight to her advantage. They struggle and fall, rolling far and fast into the stream several feet away.

Before the others can advance, she rips out his throat.

Bloated and gray fingers clasp around a suddenly gushing wound, choked cries bubbling just as violently as she jerks up. She relieves the templar of his bow and quiver, blood smeared down her face and neck.

A single arrow kills the second attacker, straight between the eyes. His skull cracks.

The third attempts to flank, his sword sweeping low but not low enough as she ducks then barrels forward, head first. Bull would be proud—the templar’s withered body shakes in its metal case, like marbles, as they hit the ground. Arrows spill from the quiver. Lyrium spikes break. Jolts of static cast both in a red, haunting glow. The templar’s cry is a monstrous and twisted sound, echoing through the forest.

Iona climbs over the creature. Before anything can be done to stop her, she grabs a stray arrow and stabs into what remains of a human eye.

He—it—screams again. Hands jut out to catch her arm, but frantic magical energy descends its mind into delirium. The templar flails this way and that, crying louder. She anchors down through her thighs, her other hand round its throat, and lifts her fist only to thrust it back down, fast.

Again and again, she hammers the arrow in, gouging until the warped skull gives and the templar dies as cruelly as it lived.

Eventually, she stops, panting hard. She leaves the broken arrow within the skull.

As she gets back onto her feet, she spits on the corpse. Speckles of blood splatter along the chestplate’s holy emblem, Andraste’s flaming sword.

The first templar is still alive, sputtering as his blood pools into the stream. Iona picks up the bow and quiver and takes a minute to fix the latter across her chest. Then, she approaches and Solas watches on.

She doesn’t bother wasting a shot. Instead, she lifts her heel and digs into the templar’s face, shoving it to the side and into the direction of the waterflow.

Perhaps this one was not wholly gone. Perhaps she even noticed, or cared. The templar gives in to the pressure. His hands fall to the wayside and eyes slip shut. She closes her own and bears down through her leg until the body tremors stop.

At last, her strength is spent. When she steps away, her knees give in and she collapses by the gentle brook.

Solas’ stoic expression breaks as she lets out a soft noise, a quiet sob, barely caught between her teeth.

“Ir abelas,” she cries to no one. “I am so, so sorry.”

Beneath the full gleam of the moons, he sees her fully now—defiled in a way no battle as ever done before.

She’s turned pale, paler than the bodies she felled or the moons themselves. The fingers of her right hand dig into her left. Out of habit or pain, it’s hard to say. Her head falls back as she begins to rock, neck bared, face scrunched up. A torrent of prayers builds in her throat and she struggles to simply breathe, to not give in to the pain, or guilt, or history pressing down on and in.

Tears leave streaks through grime and blood. She has won, but Solas has seen her dreams. He knows a part of wishes she did not.

There isn’t a spirit around that doesn’t laud her strength or question his heart.

After a moment, Solas makes himself known, snapping a twig in the process.

She jerks at the sound. Her knees bend, one up, the other braced and Solas is greeted with an arrow flying overhead.

She readies another as he steps into the moonlight, arms up.

“It is only me,” he says, as softly as he can. “Be calm.”

She doesn’t let down her weapon, though her aim shakes. Panic floods her gore-stripped face as she blinks, rapidly.

He lowers one hand as if to reach out for her. “Inquisitor—”

“Don’t!”

She strengthens her pull, the arrow’s feathered back kissing her cheek. In that moment, he scarcely recognizes her.

“Don’t come any closer!”

Something akin to mockery slips into his head, snapping its jaws. What did he expect from someone so young, so broken, so fiercely in love? Of course a day like this would come. He’s seen it before, with others, friends, himself. This is his doing. This is his war.

He takes a breath and steels his heart from the ache taking root.

They are well past love now—he’d likely burn before she lets him touch her ever again.

“Da’len, please. You know me; lower your bow.”

She’s confused, hurt. Scared. Another tear slides down her face. Then, she grits her teeth and snarls, and he knows his mistake before she even speaks.

“Don’t call me that. You know better. You’re not allowed to call me that. You’re not real, you’re not even here. You left me, you fucking bastard, you broke my heart and left me just so you could die in this fucking place!”

She thinks—what does she think? That this isn’t real? Is it? Is it?

The wind, difficult hear amongst trees so thick and old, now howls. They both fall silent to the sound of tree-tops shuddering.

It’s real, he thinks. It’s all real, from the bones the forest feeds off of to the woman before him, driven to the edge by thinking him dead.

Leaves rain down, but being so far up, they look odd, misshapen against the moonlight. It reminds him of ash, slowly descending upon a fallen kingdom. The smell of blood, fear, and sweat worsens the image in his head—and a woman. Another forsaken woman lies at his feet, scared to death.

They’ve survived the battle, but the war is yet to come. Looking back at her, at his inquisitor turned feral, now openly weeping at the sight of the stars, Solas tries to remember who she was before tonight. A doe? A rabbit? When he met her, she was soft, bright, and loyal to her people. Cassandra—if she still lives—doubted her god’s choice. Solas regrets his.

Harden your heart, he told her as he tossed it back at her. She snarled then too, but took the hurt he caused and shoved it inside her chest.

He hoped she’d never forgive him but hadn’t yet prepared himself for the day she’d take aim at him.

Today isn’t that day, however.

Her grip has loosened and she’s crying so hard, there’s no chance she’d be able to keep a steady grip. The spirits warn him not to approach. Whether they are protecting him or her, he doesn’t know but defies his descendants nonetheless.

He kneels before his former lover.

“Inquisitor,” he says then corrects himself. “Iona. Please get up. We can’t stay here, it isn’t safe.”

She ignores him, dropping her bow to cradle her face in her hands. She cries harder, full-body throes.

He wants to hold her but doesn’t. Instead, he drops his voice to whisper, “Please. Please. We must find the others, we must make it back to camp.”

She shakes her head, a muffled ‘I can’t’ slipping past.

Gently, he grabs her wrist and pulls it to him. She lets him.

“Iona,” he begins, stops, and presses closer. He is real. She is real. This is real. He hurt her, and that’s real too.

“You can. You must. If we stay, more will come. You understand, don’t you? Corypheus will win if you die here. The Inquisition will be lost. Please, get up.”

He means more than she’ll ever know. And that’s the great tragedy, isn’t it? Everything he wants to say and everything he will do in spite of it.

“Iona.” He squeezes her wrist. Softly, he risks a kiss against her palm. “You must go on.”

Solas drags the Inquisitor to her feet, his legs wavering at the energy he expends. His head is still spinning but rather than heal himself, he holds her by the waist, cups her face, and focuses on her.

He fixes little, but that’s the point. He’s learned when to stop helping.

Warmth floods her battered body, like a sacred and sweet kiss. As bruises soften at his touch, Iona’s eyes slip open. For the first time since she walked away from him, she looks at him without malice or disgust. Her tears stop.

The forest shifts into a healthy green the longer he heals her. There’s love in her eyes, dreamy and sickly, followed slowly by clarity, recognition. His own expression remains blank.

When he pulls his hands away, he takes the warmth with him and the spell ends.

She gently pushes him back as reality snaps back into place.

“I’m—I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“The Veil is thin here. You have nothing to apologize for, Inquisitor.”

She sighs and shakes her head. Only now, does she wipe away the blood around her mouth.

“I do, but you’re right. We can’t stay here.”

She looks around, at all she’s done, but doesn’t pause to let the disgust sink in. When she returns to him, her gaze is dulled, as if he’s insignificant. Good, he thinks.

“Alright.” She sucks in another breath. “Alright. Where is your staff?”

“Gone, broken.”

“And your head?” She gestures to the trail of blood, now dried down his face. He hadn’t noticed it before. “Can you walk on your own?”

“I believe I can.”

She nods, swallows, and looks around again. “I recognize this place. We can’t be far from the others, or the camp. With any luck, we’ll make it through to morning.”

He’s relieved but refrains from admitting so. She frowns at his silence.

“Stay close. I can’t have you dying now, Solas,” she says. “The Inquisition still needs you.”

She turns and chooses a path in seconds. Her body doesn’t shake nor does her stride waver. The forest is her domain; the night sky will guide them out.

Iona steps out of the moonlight and into the pitch black. He lingers behind, just to be certain how far she will go without looking back.

#dragon age fanfiction #da fanfic #dragon age inquisition #dragon age #solas #female lavellan #da fic #da:i fic #dragon age inquisition fanfiction #pairing: solas/lavellan #all fic

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buttsonthebeach · 7 years ago

Note

Prompt: "Tomorrow They'll More Of Us" / Wisdom

Pairing: Past Solavellan and past f!Hawke x Merrill

Rating: Teen (for a passing reference to the very NSFW Solavellan one-shot “Unbent”)

Note: (Soo, this isn’t quite what you prompted, but I couldn’t let this scene go… I worked in one or two lines from “Tomorrow There’ll Be More of Us” and managed to use the overall concept of hearing the dead speak in your mind!)

Ellana goes to Kirkwall after the events of Trespasser to carry some long overdue condolences to Hawke’s widow, and two Dalish women who have left their clans mourn the things they’ve lost along the way.

AKA the first time I write about my canon Hawke and of course it has to be sad.

****

The Hawke estate was only a few doors away from Ellana’s own estate (a word that didn’t feel any more real than it had the year before at the Winter Palace). That was Varric’s supposed reason for why she should walk down and introduce herself to Merrill.

“It would be good, right? You two being neighborly? Good for both of you.” Varric said the words with a smile but something was missing from his bluster. He’d gotten grayer in the year since he became viscount.

Ellana knew what he wanted. Varric fussed. He fussed over everyone. And right now he saw an opportunity to ease his own worries. Instead of fussing over her and Merrill separately, he could hope they would take care of each other.

“I’m not staying long, Varric,” Ellana reminded him. She was on her way to meet with Dorian in Tevinter. Kirkwall was just a small stopover - a week at most for rest and resupply and to check in with Inquisition agents spread throughout the Free Marches.

“I know,” Varric said. “But - at least say hi for me, would you? She’s a big fan of yours, you know. You’re the most famous Dalish elf since - well, ever.”

“Yes. The most famous bare-faced Dalish elf in all of Thedas. Did you ever mention that to her?” Ellana didn’t ask the other question on the tip of her tongue. Did you tell her about Solas? About Fen’Harel? Rumors were spreading, of course. But rumors were one thing. Hearing the truth from a friend was another. Just one more thing the Dalish got wrong.

“I mean, it’s in the book. Not sure how much she’s read, though. It - that part is after Adamant.”

Ellana looked away at the name. She let a breath out through her nose. “I’ll go, Varric. I will. I owe you that much. I owe her that much.”

“Thank you.” His voice was quiet and sincere.

So she went down to the Hawke estate the next day and the servant - Orana - directed her to the library and Ellana finally met the woman whose wife she’d left to die in the Fade.

“Mistress,” Orana said when they entered. Merrill looked up from her book and Ellana was struck at once by the brilliant green of her eyes. “Inquisitor Ellana Lavellan is here.”

“Just Ellana,” she corrected at once, reflexively, with a vague wave of her hand.

“Oh,” Merrill said. She stared, then recollected herself with a rapid blink of those big eyes. “Thank you, Orana.”

Orana bowed and slipped away, and they were alone.

“I’m sorry,” Merrill said when the door closed. She set her book down. “I didn’t know you were coming. Varric said you were here but not that you would come for a visit.”

“Of course I came,” Ellana said. But what kind of a foolish thing was that to say? Of course. Like they were old friends. Her left arm ached today. Phantom pain. “I heard so much about you. From Varric and from -”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. She didn’t even want to say her name.

“From Marian,” Merrill finished. The name flowed beautifully off her tongue. Her Dalish accent made it sound rich and exotic.

“Yes. From Hawke.”

Merrill smiled, but she didn’t show her teeth. She rose from the chair and crossed the distance between them, and hugged Ellana tight. The gesture caught her so off guard that she didn’t even have time to offer the awkward, one-armed hug that counted as an embrace for her lately. Merrill didn’t seem to mind. She put her hands on Ellana’s shoulders when she stepped back.

“You’re shorter than I thought,” Merrill said, her tone thoughtful. A laugh escaped Ellana.

“Sorry to disappoint, I guess.”

“No, no,” Merrill said quickly. “I like it, actually. The Inquisitor is just my size. It’s a nice thought.” She cocked her head, searching Ellana’s face for something. “But - I thought you had vallaslin. Did Varric get that wrong? He always gets mine wrong. In one chapter of the Tale of the Champion he says I have Elgar’nan’s and in another he says it’s Mythal. Though I suppose it’s unfair since my birth clan does Sylaise’s marks a little differently than everyone else, but don’t you think he could at least get the name right?”

Ellana’s heart ached to hear Merrill speak. She was exactly as Hawke described. Fluttery, unfocused, and so unendingly kind.

“June,” she said when Merrill stopped. “I was marked for June.”

“Oh,” Merrill said. “Was? What happened?”

Ellana’s throat constricted, thinking of the cool glade in Crestwood, the warmth of Solas’s hands and lips - of the mosaics in the Crossroads.

“It’s a bit of a story.”

“Oh. I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to pry. I suppose I shouldn’t ask why you don’t sound very Dalish, either.”

Another laugh escaped Ellana. That explanation was at least simpler. Her city elf parents never gained the Dalish lilt in all the years they lived with the clan, and her own speech was molded by theirs. She did sound Dalish sometimes - she could play up one accent or the other if she chose - but these last four years spent amongst human nobles, trying her hardest to seem palatable to them, hadn’t helped.

“I don’t feel very Dalish anymore, to be honest.”

Ellana hadn’t meant to let the words slip out. But Merrill’s big green eyes softened, and she took Ellana’s hand and pressed it between both of hers.

“I know what you mean, lethallan.”

They ended up going for a walk in Hightown. They were both practiced in ignoring the stares of humans who didn’t want them there. They could move quietly through the crowds, and talk. Of their clans, and the last time they saw them (years, for both of them, but they were alive, and safe, and wasn’t that what counted?) and the shame they felt for leaving, the reasons they couldn’t go back.

“But it’s not all bad,” Merrill said at last. “I do good here, helping the elves in the alienage. We never did think of them much, did we? Just about aravels and halla and the next Arlathvhen. We didn’t do enough. Now I’m doing everything I can. And for a few years, I had my Marian.”

Ellana’s chest was slowly growing tighter and tighter with the things she wanted to say. About that smoke-filled ruin in the Western Approach. About the Fade and its many-eyed monsters. About the moment Hawke turned and said tell Merrill I’m sorry.

“And you had someone too, didn’t you?”

Ellana blinked, coming back to herself. “I’m sorry?”

“Someone you called ‘vhenan.’ The apostate mage. Marian wrote to me and said you two must have thought you were being very clever, calling each other vhenan and expecting no one to understand, since you acted like you were only friends. I suppose it never occurred to you that that’s what I called her.” Merrill’s tone was teasing, but her eyes were sad. Vhenan. It was a heavy word. It slowed their steps.

“I did. For a time. He’s - we’re -”

She balled her hand into a fist and did not picture the look in his eyes when he cradled her close. He would never forget her - but he wouldn’t stay.

“I - had heard some rumors. About him. About you. About the vallaslin. Some of the elves in the alienage have been talking about agents of a man who calls himself Fen’Harel.”

I was Solas first.

“Varric won’t answer my questions,” Merrill went on. “I think he fancies that he’s protecting me from something.”

“We shouldn’t talk about it here,” Ellana said.

Merrill threaded her arm through Ellana’s. They didn’t say much else as they walked back to the Hawke estate. It was pushing late afternoon.

“Would you like to come in for a bite?” Merrill asked. “Orana can make hearthcakes. I haven’t given up everything Dalish.”

“Of course.”

They ate the cakes in the small garden in the back of the house. When they were done Merrill looked faraway.

“They always make me think of Marian,” she said at last. “She was so puzzled when I first tried to make them. Well, I did make a mistake. A few mistakes. I had to explain the recipe to Orana and then she got it right, actually. But then Marian loved them. It was the first - it was the first thing I brought into this house that was really mine. That made it feel like it was our house. It was so many years ago but I still think of it every time.”

She was crying unashamedly. Only a few small tears, but tears all the same. Ellana wanted to push the table aside and crush her to her chest.

“Merrill -” she said finally. “I don’t have the words to say - I can’t -”

Tell Merrill I’m sorry.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. and felt empty at last.

She stood and went around the little table to crouch at Merrill’s side to hold her as well as she could. It wasn’t fair, she said to herself over and over again. It wasn’t fair that she walked out of that rift and Hawke didn’t. Ellana Lavellan got to live - she got to turn angrily on Clarel and demand that the Wardens get out of Orlais - that she got to welcome Solas into her arms that night and somehow miss again (again) the frantic way he buried himself in her like he could erase whatever it was that ate at his heart. It wasn’t fair that instead of Solas left grieving on the other side of that Veil, mourning the woman he would leave in a few months time in any case, the woman he would leave over and over again - that instead it was Merrill with her dark hair and green eyes and kind voice who sat here sobbing because her wife never came home.

Ellana had never regretted anything in her life as much as she regretted Adamant.

“She was so brave,” Ellana managed at last thickly. “Right until the very end. She was brave and funny and she protected us all. I wish I could have stopped her. I wish - if not for the Anchor I would have - and she wanted me to tell you that -”

“Stop,” Merrill said. “Marian did what she needed to do. I am not selfish enough to think that her life mattered more than the fate of all Thedas.”

Merrill lifted her head. Wiped her eyes. Looked around the garden. Ellana remained crouching at her side.

“We were bonded back here in the garden, you know. Marian thought that was such a quaint word. Bonded. I always called her my wife, though. I think that word meant more to her than bondmate. She liked it when I called her wife. We didn’t get much time for that. We couldn’t stay in Kirkwall long without someone finding out, and it was only a month later when she left for Skyhold. But I can still come back here and feel like she’s close whenever I want. Maybe that’s why I’ve never gone back to my clan.”

Ellana remembered her own bonding ceremony, Mahanon’s hands trembling in hers. It felt like a lifetime ago. She was a widow, too. She didn’t think of it so much anymore. Instead she imagined Solas speaking those words instead. The ancient promises. The trembling hands. Someday, when all of it was over. But it was a fantasy. Like so many other things she’d built her life around.

“The Fade is a strange place. I made it out alive once before. Maybe…”

“Maybe.” Merrill studied her hands. They reminded Ellana of Solas’s. They were callused in the same places. “Do you know what - I haven’t gone to Sundermount in a while. Would you like to join me tomorrow? I can show you where my clan stayed. There’s still an altar to Mythal high up, if we want to make an offering.”

Ellana agreed.

The next morning they rose early, wrapped their feet, packed salted jerky and fresh berries, and set out for Sundermount, pretending they were two ordinary Dalish girls.

They told stories on the way of the Arlathvhens they remembered, comparing notes, arguing over details. They determined they’d surely met before, when they were younger. They compared the lyrics to their favorite songs and the quirks of their individual clans. Merrill told stories of her years in Kirkwall, and Ellana shared hers of the Inquisition.

They talked about Hawke.

Ellana didn’t have many stories to share. Her time with the Champion of Kirkwall was brief. But together they made her live again with their words.

They talked about Solas.

Ellana shared how he once set his own clothes on fire, how he painted with such scope and skill, how he always had to kiss her one more time before bed or parting. How his vengeance cast down gods and sundered worlds and how he took the vallaslin from her face with such tenderness, kissed her and called her beautiful, and then left her in that glen. How he was always, always leaving. How he was Solas first, before anything else.

She wasn’t sure what kind of reaction she expected from Merrill when she explained all that Solas had revealed. She was First to a Keeper, and therefore even more intimately connected to the tales of an Elvhenan that never was than Ellana had ever been. But she’d also risked possession and death to restore one small piece of that world, had seen no sacrifice as to great or to small to restore their people’s rightful place -

“I think we all have to decide for ourselves what this means,” Merrill said at last, when the tale was done. “It’s so much to take in. To consider. And so many pieces are missing… And for you - Ellana.” She said her name with sudden urgency. “You had to see all of this firsthand. You had to hear it from the man who said he loved you. How do you feel?”

Ellana looked away. There was no word for what she felt. No word that she knew in Elvhen or Trade or any other tongue.

“I told you. I don’t feel very Dalish anymore.”

“No.” Merrill stopped walking. Ellana turned back to face her. “You are Dalish. No one can take that from you. Least of all the Dread Wolf. Being Dalish isn’t wearing vallaslin or sleeping in an aravel or praying to Mythal. We are the last of the Elvhen. Never again shall we submit. If you keep that in your heart - if you keep fighting as I do for all our people - then you are Dalish.”

It was a naive sentiment, perhaps. There were few Dalish who would agree with her. But it made Ellana’s heart a little lighter.

“Thank you,” she said. Merrill only nodded, decisively, like the question was settled once and for all.

“He really did love you?” She asked a bit later. They were close to where her clan had camped - where there would have been outward-facing statues of Fen’Harel.

No matter what happens - what we had was real.

“Yes,” Ellana said. “He really did.”

“No wonder you can’t go back to your Keeper,” Merrill said with a shake of her head. “I don’t think I could look Marethari in the eye and tell her I’d let the Dread Wolf take me, either.”

Ellana laughed, full up from her belly, so hard she had to set down the pack she was carrying and lean, wheezing, against a boulder. She laughed harder than she had in months, until there were tears in her eyes that she had to wipe away.

They walked all the way up to the altar Merrill had spoken of, for the view if for nothing else. It was sweaty work, the kind Ellana enjoyed. She had so few opportunities to use her body as a tool now - and that had always been her favorite kind of work. Scouting, climbing, foraging, hunting. She wrote reports now. Attended parties. It was good to feel her muscles ache and to reap the reward of the view: the mountain green below them, the blue slash of the Wounded Coast, and the gray stone of Kirkwall even further out. Looking at the altar, Ellana couldn’t help but wonder about Morrigan, about Flemeth. Where were they now? If they made an offering, would one of them appear?

“I came here a lot after I got word from Varric about what happened,” Merrill said. “I was angry at the Creators. Angry at Marian. Angry at you. I’m not angry anymore. People will always tell her story, however it ended.”

The breeze picked up. It carried the scent of pine resin and saltwater. The Free Marches. Home.

“I am,” Ellana said. “Angry. And afraid.”

Merrill looked to her, but Ellana didn’t meet her gaze. She thought of Hawke instead. Of a woman who had sacrificed so much with so little hesitation. She thought of all the times she’d wanted to simply lay down her head and stop fighting since the Exalted Council. She thought of Solas.

“I have so much work to do,” she said at last.

Merrill frowned, pursed her lips, and then finally nodded. “Yes. I suppose you do.”

Halfway down the mountain they managed to pretend they were ordinary Dalish women once more. They traded more stories, more laughter. They drank in the twilight calm. They got back to Hightown, and parted with another tight embrace.

“Dareth shiral, lethallan,” Merrill said.

“Dareth shiral,” Ellana replied.

Ellana carried Merrill with her when she left Kirkwall a few days later. Just as she carried Hawke - just as she carried Solas. She carried all of them, and hoped she was strong enough to bear the weight, to do what needed to be done.

#dragon age fanfic #angst #solavellan fanfic #f! hawke x merrill #ellana lavellan #merrill #da2 #da:i #my writing #my ocs #hamilton x dragon age #man this was a sad song to listen to on repeat for this

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